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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


HER AMERICAN DAUGHTER 



HER AMERICAN 
DAUGHTER 


ANNIE T. COLCOCK 

AUTHOR OF 

“MARGARET TUDOR” 


NEW YORK AND WASHINGTON 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1905 




LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

Two Copies Received 

DEC 20 1905 

Copyright Entry 
OLASS CL XXc. No, 


COPYRIGHT, 1905 
BY 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING CO. 


HER AMERICAN DAUGHTER 



HER AMERICAN DAUGHTER 


CHAPTER I 

Out of Tangier, to the westward, meanders a 
road — a rugged, dusty road — that bridges the shal- 
lows of a pebbly stream brawling by the city gate, 
winds its way round naked boulders upstanding in 
the midst of tropic verdure, cuts so sharply through 
green hillocks that the banks on either hand are 
always caving and slipping, and the gold-brown soil 
atop trickling darkly down the sandy slopes ; 
then clambers up and up — past wretched mud huts 
thatched with straw and hedged about with prickly 
pear, past the whitewashed dwellings of wealthy 
Jews and Moors, the villas and walled gardens of the 
foreign legations — upward and upward still, 
through fragrant orange groves to the summit of 
Mt. Washington. 

Viewed from that height, all the surrounding 
country appears strangely broken, as though turned 
up in furrows by a giant plow. The hillsides in the 
foreground are a vivid emerald, but they grow bluer 
and bluer as they roll away in the distance, till at last 
they melt into the sky. The town of Tangier — a 
crowded mass of white and yellow buildings — nes- 


8 


Her American Daughter 


ties in the hollow of the bay. Beyond lie the Straits 
of Gibraltar — an expanse of shimmering green ; and 
far, far away, smoke colored and dim, rise the hilly 
shores of Spain. 

For the sake of this wide outlook, strangers are 
frequently induced to follow the rugged roadway 
either afoot or on horse-, mule- or donkey-back, 
vehicles of any description being hardly obtainable; 
and at the time when our story opens — which is an 
afternoon in the latter part of January, 1896, — two 
young Americans, mounted on small gray burros 
and attended by native donkey boys, were just start- 
ing out to make the ascent. 

Across the narrow bridge rode a tall youth whose 
long legs almost touched the ground on either side 
of his diminutive steed; beside him ran a lad with 
a sharp stick, who prodded the donkey from time to 
time when its pace began to fail, and as the trio 
scampered along they raised a little cloud of dust 
that glittered in the yellow sunlight. 

Behind and with an ever-lengthening space be- 
tween, the second rider — a girl of about twenty-one 
— trotted more sedately. She and her young attend- 
ant were both very good to look upon, yet the con- 
trast between them was as wide as the east is far from 
the west. The donkey boy’s features were clear-cut 
and regular, his skin was a golden brown with red 
blood mantling the cheeks, his eyes were black, and so 
was his close-cropped hair. His dress consisted chief- 
ly of a brown, hooded gehab, half slipping from the 
shoulders and reaching down below the knees ; be- 
neath this he wore a braided crimson vest, and on his 


Her American Daughter 9 

head was a red fez with a full blue silk tassel; the 
wide sleeves of his loose upper garment fell to his 
wrists, but his bare brown ankles showed above the 
heelless yellow sandals on his feet. And the girl, 
whose slim figure was clad in the fashion of her day, 
whose fair young face was all unveiled to the warm 
glare and the glance of men, smiled down at him in 
open friendliness. 

“You live Noo Yok?” queried the boy as he 
swung along beside the burro, one hand sunk caress- 
ingly in its shaggy mane. “You live Noo Yok?” 
he repeated, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of 
the rider's countenance. 

“N-no-o,” she quavered in a laughing tremolo, 
“my home is in as sunny a clime as yours — and I 
hope I may live to return there, but this . 
is the pace . . that kills! Why this inde- 

corous haste, Mohammed ? The mountain has 
awaited us some centuries already; wherefore, O 
prophet, I beseech thee to restrain the ardor of thine 
ass !” 

“Yeh !” exclaimed Mohammed, with cheerful ac- 
quiescence. “You lak he go fas'? Rrrrah! 
Rrrrrrah!” and he used his sharp prod with such 
fatal result that the rough canvas pads which bal- 
anced each other across the donkey’s spine swayed 
and rocked alarmingly. 

The girl, who sat sideways with her small feet 
dangling unsupported, her right hand clutching the 
hempen rein and her left vainly seeking anchorage 
on Mohammed’s shoulder, gasped an hysterical re- 


10 Her American Daughter 

monstrance. “Prophet . . . thing of evil! 
Prophet still ... if boy or . devil ! 

Make your donkey . . . stop !” 

“Sh ! Ssh !” cried a voice behind her on the road- 
side, and the burro suddenly came to a halt. 

With feminine ingratitude, his rider, shifting 
round on her primitive saddle, turned a flushed and 
indignant face to the stranger in her pathway. Two 
mutinous gray eyes challenged his right to command 
her silence, two soft red lips curved proudly, and 
despite the bewildering fluff of bronze-brown hair 
shaken loose and ripppling round her forehead it 
was a very stern countenance that confronted Eliot 
Russell as he approached the donkey’s head. 

Lifting his hat gravely, he said: “Pardon me! 
But your donkey boy has evidently omitted to give 
you the usual instructions. In the language to which 
your steed is accustomed, Sh! is equivalent to 
Whoa!” 

“Oh, is it?” she murmured, comprehension and 
apology blending rosily in her half-averted face. 
“You should have told me that, Mohammed.” 

“Ah theenk you want go fas’ lak heem,” said the 
boy quite innocently, pointing as he spoke to the 
rider in advance of them, whose burro trotted for- 
ward at such a rapid gait that his guide had much 
ado to keep abreast of it. 

“Heaven forbid !” exclaimed the girl, administer- 
ing a few restorative pats to her loosened hairpins. 
“I am very much obliged to you,” she added, turn- 


Her American Daughter 11 

ing graciously to her preserver. “At first I mistook 
your friendly intervention for a reproof to my un- 
guarded speech. ,, 

Russell smiled. “If I may venture so far, I would 
like to suggest that while your escort could never 
have heard of Edgar Poe, his limited vocabulary is 
very likely to include certain profane expressions, 
so your future quotations might be more prudently 
selected. ,, 

“You are right,” she said. “I might have given 
serious offense. Thank you again,” and she gath- 
ered up the hempen reins between her fingers, pre- 
paratory to another start. 

“In case you should ever want to mend your pace, 
you must say Rrrrah!” added Russell, with an ex- 
cellent imitation of the guttural cry in common use. 
“And Baidak! means 'Clear the way!’ ” 

“Indeed?” replied the girl, a sparkle of mischief 
lighting her gray eyes : “Let me see. I suppose — 
by way of illustration — it would now be correct to 
say Rrrah! to the donkey and Balaak! to you?” 

“Quite correct,” he admitted briefly; and once 
more raising his soft felt hat, he stepped aside out of 
her path. 

Immediately the burro waggled its long ears and 
trotted off, with Mohammed at its heels; and the 
girl, looking back over her shoulder, waved her hand 
in a laughing farewell to the man, who stood bare- 
headed in the sunshine. 


CHAPTER II 


The sun had gone down behind the hills; from 
the mueddin towers the city had been summoned to 
prayer, and now within every mosque could be heard 
the chanting of the faithful; but the civilization of 
our western world had lit its torches in the crooked 
little streets, for here and there along the walls elec- 
tric bulbs glowed opalescent through the violet dusk. 

Down one of the narrow alleys passed two young- 
men in earnest conversation. 

“I've been anticipating this recall ever since we 
started for Fez,” the younger of these was saying. 
“It ought to have reached me a week ago — that’s the 
worst of these God- forsaken regions! I’m awfully 
sorry, Russell, but you see yourself how it is — I 
must take the next steamer home.” 

“Of course, if your presence there is requisite,” 
agreed his companion. “But it’s hard lines having 
your holiday cut short, — and I need not tell you, 
Thornton, what the loss of a kindred spirit means to 
me.” 

The other man laughed shortly. “What troubles 
me most, my dear fellow, is not that, much as my 
vanity may overestimate it. I am thinking of the 
other complication.” 

“What complication?” demanded Russell. 


Her American Daughter 


13 


“My sister Isabel. She hates having her plans up- 
set — by other people. She would have all the uni- 
verse revolving staidly in orbits of her own appoint- 
ing, while she performed erratic flights at unex- 
pected moments in contravention of all celestial or 
terrestrial laws.” 

Russell's silence breathed disapproval, and his 
friend, perceiving it, laid one hand upon his arm in 
affectionate protest. 

“You think I’m severe. You believe in your heart 
that I have never properly appreciated Isabel — 
although, with the rest of the family, I have figured 
constantly in the tail of the comet ever since poor 
Dering’s death. The attraction of a pretty, over- 
indulged woman, my dear Russell, is sometimes too 
coercive for the comfort of her immediate circle — 
as you might better understand if you had ever had a 
sister of your own.” 

They had now reached the door of their hotel, so 
Russell was spared a reply; but as he followed his 
companion into the dining room his thoughts were 
busy with Mrs. Dering. Although he had seen lit- 
tle of her since her marriage and widowhood, he 
remembered her as a very charming girl, and the 
brother’s attitude struck him as disloyal. 

Besides the long table at which he and Thornton 
took their places, there were two others, each seating 
about twenty persons — all of them utter strangers, 
for tourists seldom linger more than a day or two in 
Tangier, and Russell and his friend had only that 
morning returned from a two weeks’ excursion 
through the interior of the country. As his quiet 


14 


Her American Daughter 


glance swept over the assembled company without 
encountering one familiar face, he became subcon- 
sciously aware of a disappointment. Since after- 
noon it had been in his mind that he would probably 
discover among his fellow-guests the owner of a pair 
of mocking gray eyes, but evidently she was stopping 
at the other hotel. 

Scarcely had he arrived at this conclusion, how- 
ever, when two ladies entered the room and seated 
themselves in the only unoccupied chairs at his own 
table. One of them was a colorless little person of 
uncertain age; the other was a slim young creature 
in a dark blue gown, whom he recognized at once, 
although the expression of her face was now wholly 
serious. As their eyes met across the table, she 
bowed sedately, and he decided that her gravity 
became her. But it quickly passed, for she was soon 
engaged in an animated conversation with her 
immediate neighbors — a brown-bearded man of dis- 
tinctly pleasing appearance and an overgrown youth 
with a dimple in his chin. Snatches of their talk 
came to Russell at intervals during the meal, and 
Thornton found in him a very inattentive hearer. 
Finally, perceiving the cause, he broke off in the mid- 
dle of an argument, demanding : “Who’s that pretty 
girl just going out?” 

“I wish I knew,” replied his friend, pushing aside 
his coffee cup with impatience and joining in the 
general exodus from the dining room. But he 
reached the hall too late for more than a fleeting 
glimpse of a dark blue gown disappearing up the 
winding stairway. 


Her American Daughter 15 

He was now both piqued and disappointed. 
Without being a conceited man, he had seen too 
much of the world — and the women of it — not to 
have a just appreciation of his own attractive per- 
sonality, and he had fancied that the girl would 
make it easier for him. The hall below was filled 
with knots of people, most of them sociably inclined; 
conventions count for so little on the outskirts of civ- 
ilization, and one cannot afford to shut oneself away 
from all pleasant companionship just for lack of a 
common friend to pronounce the open sesame. 

Opposition, however, stimulates desire. He be- 
thought him next of the two men who had evidently 
been of the same party, and pacing slowly down the 
hall he perceived the brown-bearded man in con- 
sultation with the office clerk, while the tall boy 
with the dimpled chin stood by with both hands in 
his pockets and a cigarette between his laughing 
lips. There was something very prepossessing about 
this young fellow. 

She called him Peter. Peter what ? wondered 
Russell, and the hotel register naturally suggesting 
itself, he sauntered over to the desk and studied the 
arrivals of the week. There was but one Peter 
among them all, and his signature was boldly 
scrawled across the page: Peter Harding , Rhode 
Island , U. S. A. Two lines above were registered 
Henry Stafford and wife , New York; and just 
between, in a feminine hand, Raven Woodward , 
Charleston, South Carolina. At the moment when 
Russell’s finger paused beneath this name, Thornton 
leaned over his shoulder. 


16 


Her American Daughter 


“Well,” said the latter carelessly. 

“This must be she,” declared Russell with convic- 
tion. 

“Who?” asked Thornton obtusely; but his com- 
panion closed the book without further explanation. 

“I've just been re-reading Isabel’s letter,” said 
the younger man, as they strolled to the open door- 
way with their cigars. The air outside was as mild 
as a night in spring, and the sky was of that purplish 
black which one sees so often in southern latitudes. 

“She is still in Paris ?” Russell inquired. 

“Yes; but she is leaving this week. I doubt if a 
letter would have time to reach her there.” 

“And your failure to meet her in Madrid will be 
a disappointment.” 

“Oh, the disappointment’s a trifle. What worries 
me is that she and Aunt Elizabeth may attempt to 
carry out their original program without me.” 

“Would there be any objection to that?” 

Thornton hesitated. “Why — do you really think 
it would be advisable at the present crisis for two 
women to travel alone all over southern Spain? 
Suppose the clamor of our Cuban sympathizers ter- 
minates in some official action that inflames the 
Spaniards! — If Isabel were not so self-willed and 
obstinate — ” 

“It seems to me,” Russell hastily put in, “that 
with her aunt, her courier and her maid she would 
be safe enough. But in case of any real emergency, 
you may be sure, Thornton, that your father’s 
daughter will never need a protector while I am 
within reach of her.” 


Her American Daughter 17 

The brow of the younger man instantly cleared. 
“I thought you would say that ! It seems a shame 
to impose my responsibilities on you, but I must 
go home immediately, and this question of Isabel’s 
movements was a load on my mind. Of course, it 
is unlikely that any trouble will arise in the next 
month or two, but if it should — ” 

“I give you my promise that Mrs. Dering shall 
have my escort and protection as far as the Spanish 
frontier.” 

“My dear fellow, I don’t know how to thank 
you ! It was too much to ask of your friendship 
for me, but for my father’s sake — ” 

“For your sister’s own sake I shall be only too 
glad to be of any service,” insisted Russell cordially. 
“I shall probably return to Madrid by the first of 
February — and I wish I were half as sure of Mrs. 
Dering’s welcome as I used to be of little Isabel 
Thornton’s in my college davs.” 

“You were always a favorite of hers,” said the 
brother smiling; and then silence fell between 
them — a silence in which all the dissonances of the 
night were audible. 

“I must go to Gibraltar to-morrow morning,” 
Thornton remarked presently. “The steamer is due 
there next day. I suppose I can count on your com- 
pany as far as the Rock ?” 

“Why, of course,” returned Russell. “I have 
nothing to keep me here.” But even as he spoke 
there came to him, unbidden, a fleeting memory of 
the girl in blue. 


18 Her American Daughter 

Outside in the street, amid the babel of the city's 
noises, certain sounds grew more insistent — the 
high screeching of wind instruments, the clash 
and clang of discordant cymbals and the hollow rat- 
tle of a toneless drum. Nearer and nearer they came, 
voices mingling with them, and hoof beats, and the 
shuffle of sandalled feet. 

“A Moorish wedding procession, ladies and gen- 
tlemen !” cried the voice of the hotel guide. 

At this announcement the idlers in the hall 
crowded to the doorway, and in another moment 
Peter of the dimpled chin was at Russell's elbow : it 
was the chance for which the latter had been wait- 
ing. 

“Take my place,” he remarked, as the wedding 
company approached. “I have been long enough 
in Morocco for such sights to lose something of their 
novelty. In a country where the average man has 
three or four wives, they are apt to be rather fre- 
quent.” 

“Thanks, awfully,” said the boy. “But isn't it 
curious ! Is the poor bride shut up in that ridicu- 
lous birdcage?” 

“I believe so,” Russell answered, and then con- 
versation became impossible. 

At the head of the clamorous throng, borne on 
the back of a patient mule, was the birdcage to 
which Peter had referred — a tiny palanquin hung 
with red and yellow curtains ; next followed a man 
with a torch of sputtering candles, and after him 
trooped the musicians, making the night hideous. 


Her American Daughter 


19 


“What a concord of sweet sounds !” Thornton 
ejaculated. “Russell, do you think a taste for this 
sort of thing would be incompatible with treason ?” 

But, quickly as it had come, the procession passed 
on and disappeared around a corner, where the 
uncouth sounds, imprisoned between narrowing 
walls, grew faint and muffled. In the lull that fol- 
lowed, the guide’s professional tones could be heard 
going on with a glib recital. 

“ — and the bride, a girl of fourteen or fifteen, 
is being carried from mosque to mosque to be 
blessed before entering the home of her future hus- 
band. To-morrow morning some of her family will 
pay him a visit to inquire if she comes up to speci- 
fications; if so, a gun will be fired by way of salute; 
but if the husband has reason to think he has made 
a bad bargain, the lady may be returned to her rela- 
tives. And at any time during their wedded life a 
writ of divorce may be obtained from the lawyers 
for about forty reals — or two dollars in American 
money.” 

“Miss Ray ought to be here,” murmured Peter, 
as the speaker paused for breath. “She’s lost the 
opportunity of her life! You haven’t met Miss 
Woodward yet, have you? She’s the girl that sits 
next to me at table. I remember seeing you at din- 
ner, — perhaps you noticed us?” 

Russell confessed that he had. 

“This was the opportunity of her life,” the boy 
repeated, “and if she’d been here you bet she 
wouldn’t have let it slip ! She’s a South Carolinian, 
Miss Ray is; and if that guide had given her half a 


20 Her American Daughter 

chance, she’d have capped his story with the remark 
that the only two places on earth where divorce 
is not permitted by law are South Carolina and — I 
forget the other, but it doesn’t matter. South Caro- 
lina’s the thing! The sun rises and sets there.” 

“Oh, does it?” laughed Thornton, who had over- 
heard. “Well, / have no objection, and although 
Russell here was born at the Hub, I think he is fast 
degenerating into a cosmopolitan — such is the ill 
effect of travel!” 

“I don’t believe it will have any such effect on 
Miss Ray!” declared Peter. “You ought to hear 
her talk! I’ll introduce you to-morrow morning,” 
he added patronizingly. 

“Thank you,” said both men with becoming grat- 
itude. 

“I’m sorry to say we’ve got to leave here to-mor- 
row,” Peter continued. “We are going back to Gib. 
en route for Madrid. We came over on the Gebal 
Tarik, three days ago — ” and he rattled on for some 
minutes more, describing with humorous touches 
their experiences in Tangier. But Russell lent only 
half an ear to this chatter ; he was thinking that for 
once fate was strangely complaisant. 

At the breakfast table next morning Peter fulfilled 
his promise, but the meal was too hurried for con- 
versation and Miss Woodward appeared preoccu- 
pied. 

In Henry Stafford, however, Russell identified a 
New York painter of some slight repute, so he was 
not surprised later on to encounter him with color 
box and brushes sketching busily in an angle of 


Her American Daughter 


21 


the old town wall. Through a low arch, glimpses 
could be had of the Sok — or market-place, crowded 
with strange figures, tents and booths, in the centre 
of which a group of kneeling camels were resting 
after a fifteen days’ journey across the desert and 
through the hills. As the artist pointed out to his 
companion some striking bit of color, or the felici- 
tous grouping of the figures near the gateway, his 
rather melancholy brown eyes were lit by an expres- 
sion which to Russell was something of a surprise. 

“That man” — he thought, after they had parted 
company — “has been capable of real enthusiasms, 
but he gives me the impression of a person in whom 
the wine of life has all turned flat.” Then, as a 
memory of the Southern girl rose up in striking con- 
trast, a slow smile crept around his own grave lips; 
but much as he was inclined to admire her happy 
effervescence, he wondered, like a wise man, what 
might be the quality of the spirit beneath it. “One 
rarely discovers a nature that is sweet and whole- 
some to the very lees,” he decided ; then his thoughts 
were all devoted to the task of threading the laby- 
rinth of crooked streets. 

The one in which he found himself had been des- 
cribed by Peter the night before as “exactly one 
donkey wide.” It was darkened here and there by 
an overhanging story that completely shut out the 
heavens; but wherever the morning beams could 
find their way the plastered walls were bathed in a 
white glow. Just before him, at the intersection of 
another street, was a small sunny court; as he 


22 Her American Daughter 

approached it a chorus of shrill voices reached his 
ear, and what he presently saw made him quicken 
his pace to a run. 

In the centre of a group of turbulent children 
stood Mohammed, the young donkey driver, with a 
scowl on his handsome face and a stout stick in his 
right hand; an angry woman, whose vituperative 
energy had disarranged the folds of her white haik 
enough to disclose a shrewish countenance, cursed 
and threatened the lad from a doorway opposite, and 
on the other side of the court, standing with her back 
against the wall, an open sketchbook in one hand 
and a pencil pressed dubiously against her chin, was 
the girl in blue. Her expression of amused per- 
plexity gave place to unmistakable relief as Russell 
appeared. 

“May I ask the meaning of all this?” he inquired, 
a hasty survey convincing him that she was unac- 
companied. 

“Too much zeal,” she answered, laughing. 
“There is such a thing as having too warm a 
champion ! I was sitting on yonder doorstep, 
sketching in peace — if not in comfort — with half the 
small boys in Tangier looking over my shoulders, 
when Nemesis overtook me in the person of Moham- 
med. He fell upon my tormentors with wrath 
unbounded and ordered them to instantly balaak! 
They naturally resented it.” 

“Very naturally,” he concurred, with meaning. 

A sudden blush overspread her cheeks, for one 
moment contrition was plainly visible in the gray 
eyes — then laughter overflowed them. Russell 


Her American Daughter 23 

smiled back at her — the inscrutable masculine smile 
which is intended to cloak a half reluctant admira- 
tion, and consulting his watch observed that it was 
eleven o’clock, that the boat was scheduled to leave 
at noon, so there would be no more time for sketch- 
ing. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied serenely, as they 
turned their steps hotelward. “As Peter would say, 
I’ve done all the harm I can in one morning, I’ve 
filled three pages of my sketchbook with bad draw- 
ings, I’ve called on a sweet faced Moorish woman 
who permitted me to pry into her housekeeping 
arrangements, and I’ve instigated a street riot — all 
in two hours.” 

“Do you mean to say that you ventured alone 
into one of these houses ?” he gravely asked. 

“Why certainly. It was the cleanest place, with 
whitewashed walls and blue tiled floors and dear 
little cupboards full of charming pottery. I sat on a 
rug and played with the baby, and felt that I was 
in another world — as real as my own, yet so differ- 
ent ! That’s the wonderful thing to me — these people 
are living their usual lives; it’s not just a show 
arranged for our entertainment.” 

“Yes, it is all real enough,” said Russell, “but 
not much of it is admirable, for Tangier is overrun 
with the offscourings of two continents. I don’t 
think I quite approve — ” he added presently, “of 
your going out alone and visiting in strange 
houses.” 

She laughed at that, and studied him quizzically 
before replying. “Do you know, for a Northern 


24 


Her American Daughter 


man — you are a Northerner, I suppose? — you 
remind me very much of a Charlestonian.” He 
accepted this statement in silence, with another 
inscrutable smile ; so, as they entered the hotel door, 
she paused a moment and faced him seriously. “It 
wouldn’t have been inappropriate, just now,” she 
declared, “if you had — thanked me.” 

Russell saw the gauntlet, but he let it lie, discreetly 
saying: “I appreciate the compliment.” 


CHAPTER III 


At half past twelve o’clock, the Hercules , an apop- 
lectic little steamer, was puffing its way out toward 
the green waters of the Straits with six passengers 
aboard. There were no cabin accommodations what- 
ever, so the tiny deck was encumbered with handbags 
and all the impedimenta which Russell and Thorn- 
ton had accumulated during their journeyings. In 
one corner, partly sheltered from the wind by a nar- 
row strip of awning, her pallid countenance wearing 
an expression of cheerful suffering, sat Mrs. Staf- 
ford. Her husband’s campstool was beside her. But 
in the stern the four other passengers leaned over 
the rail with their faces to Tangier. 

“I wonder — ” mused Miss Woodward softly, 
“whether all other people are conscious of a pang 
when saying farewell to a place they are never likely 
to revisit. Because I can’t help thinking now of the 
days that are yet coming to this quaint town, of the 
rising of the sun and the going down of the same, of 
the little round of customary things — all so strange 
to our western eyes — that will still go on and on, 
though I am no longer here to see.” 

Russell, who was standing next to her, turned 
slightly so that he might look into her face and 
slowly quoted : 


26 


Her American Daughter 


“ ‘What will be will be well — for what is is well, 

To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall 
be well.’ ” 

Ray shifted her gaze a moment to meet his. “That 
sounds like Walt Whitman,” she exclaimed. 

“It is,” said he. 

“Ah,” she sighed, “I haven’t yet achieved that 
point of view. But The Professor would understand 
me when I say that just now I am dying out of Tan- 
gier and suffering the pangs of dissolution.” 

Russell was silent, observing the very real regret 
in the gray eyes ; but Peter put in a word that broke 
the spell. “Sure an’ you do make a beautiful corpse !” 
he cried, and the girl herself led the laugh that fol- 
lowed. 

Hitherto, the day had been mild and cloudless ; but 
now mountains of white cumuli were heaped on the 
horizon, and at intervals the blue overhead was dark- 
ened by gray scuds. 

“If I were sailing in Charleston harbor, I would 
say, Look out for squalls!” remarked Ray with a 
weatherwise glance at the sky. She was buttoned 
up to the chin in a blue mackintosh and her hat was 
pulled well forward over her brow, but already the 
wind had loosened a tendril of the bronze-tinted 
hair and presently a stronger gust caught the brim of 
her hat and tossed it gaily over the rail. The three 
men each made valiant efforts to rescue it from a 
watery grave, but without success, and it disappeared 
at last in the trough of a green billow. For a second 


Her American Daughter 


27 


or two its owner gazed after it with wide eyes of dis- 
may, then she nonchalantly pulled forward the point- 
ed hood of her mackintosh. 

“Now you look like Mohammed in his gehab ” 
said Peter, with frank disapproval. “A charming 
adaptation of the Tangerine fashion,” amended 
Thornton. But Russell, after one glance into the 
depths of the disfiguring cowl, sauntered away with 
an air of utter indifference. 

The captain of the Hercules , a surly old English- 
man, had neither words nor smiles to waste upon his 
passengers; but the mate, who constituted the only 
visible portion of the crew, was a cheery Frenchman, 
small and lean and brown, with sharp black eyes and 
mustaches that curled fiercely in military fashion. To 
him had Peter paid court already; and now, as he 
chanced to pass the group in the stern, he paused 
long enough to point a knotty forefinger at a solitary 
red and black smokestack on the horizon line and to 
chuckle: “Voila messieurs, you see ze navy of 
Morocco !” 

“That man, I imagine, has something of a his- 
tory,” was Thornton’s aside to Miss Woodward 
while Peter was putting a question. Ray nodded 
and then turned to listen to the mate’s reply. 

“Ven ve reach Gibraltar? Mon Dieu, how can I 
tell you zat ! Tree hour, seex hour, ten hour — ” and 
a shrug completed the sentence. “Zese Strait, zey is 
sometime in league vid ze debil! Ven you see cloud 
like zose — ” he pointed upward, “prenez garde !” 

“Russell, I fancy some of that fellow’s experien- 
ces would furnish material for your pen,” remarked 


28 Her American Daughter 

Thornton when the Frenchman had departed. Then, 
seeing Miss Woodward’s look of inquiry, he added: 
“You didn’t know we had a chiel amang us takin’ 
notes, did you? Let me introduce him properly! 
Eliot Russell, Esquire — novelist, essayist and poet — 
a contributor to all the leading magazines.” 

“Oh !” said Ray, “is he that Mr. Russell ?” and for 
some moments she was silent, pondering. The name 
was familiar enough ; it belonged to the author of a 
clever novel of American society which had made 
considerable stir the year before ; but she had a later 
association with it — what it was she failed to recall, 
though she puzzled over it considerably. 

Meanwhile, the unfavorable prophecies were being 
rapidly fulfilled. The white clouds boiling up all 
around the horizon had risen to the zenith, com- 
pletely obscuring the sun ; they were no longer white, 
but leaden, with strange green shadows in their 
depths. And the waters of the Straits were grow- 
ing black and foam-streaked; great waves tumbled 
about the little steamer, and now and then one of 
them would dash over the rail in a shower of spray. 

Mrs. Stafford cowered under her awning with the 
same Spartan smile, but her lips were growing bluer ; 
and when a few sullen drops splashed down from 
above, the anxiety of her husband was visibly 
increased. He succeeded, after considerable trouble, 
in arranging a temporary shelter of rugs, with which 
the first strong gust of wind made wicked sport ; but, 
nothing daunted, he substituted his own arm for the 
inadequate fastening and kept his post manfully dur- 
ing the trying hours that followed. 


Her American Daughter 


29 


It is not pleasant to sit upon a sloppy deck, with 
a chill wind blowing, and receive at intervals of 
thirty seconds a generous bath of cold salt spray. 
And when the heavens are in league with the 
unfriendly elements, when the rain pours down in 
sudden torrents or dribbles slowly with imbecile per- 
sistence, and a sinister fog creeps close and closer — 
it is a good time to test the stuff of which a woman 
is made. Russell, with his overcoat collar turned up 
and the brim of his hat turned down, glanced across 
at the slender figure in the dripping mackintosh and 
decided that Miss Woodward’s temper was weather- 
proof. 

A great wave had just uprisen beside the steamer’s 
bow, had lifted high its crest like a monster of the 
sea and shaken its white mane all over the narrow 
deck. Ray had been the worst sufferer; involun- 
tarily, she had turned to meet it, and a dash of cold 
spray had invaded the sheltering hood. With a 
burst of rippling laughter, she bent forward and 
shook the water from her hair and face. 

“That was too bad!” cried Thorton, proffering 
sympathy and a fresh white handkerchief. 

“It’s my native element,” she bubbled back. “We 
Charlestonians are all more or less amphibious!” 
Under the hood a riot of damp brown curls had 
broken loose, the delicately featured face was all 
aglow and the gray eyes had a glint of the seagreen 
waves. As through wet lashes she flashed a smile 
at them, Russell thought of rainbows — and then bit 
his lip by way of punishment for this lapse into senti- 


30 


Her American Daughter 


mentality. But Thornton made no effort to conceal 
his admiration; he bent forward now with a mean- 
ing glance. 

“Are you sure you haven’t a fishtail concealed 
under that mackintosh?” 

“My ancestors, some seven generations ago, were 
of six different nationalities, but the Old Man of the 
Sea was not among them,” she retorted. 

Thornton was one of those men who enjoy talk- 
ing to a pretty woman about herself almost as much 
as having her talk about him. He dealt largely in 
personalities, and owing to a pair of handsome brown 
eyes and an agreeable voice his most commonplace 
remarks had the effect of delicate compliments. 
“Six nationalities?” he exclaimed. “I wonder if I 
can find traces of them. Let me see. You have 
Irish eyes.” 

Russell shifted his campstool nearer to Peter. 
Really, he thought, at times Thornton was very 
much of an idiot! 

But the girl in the mackintosh, who shivered now 
and then in dire discomfort, was grateful for the 
young man’s friendly efforts at consolation, and she 
answered him gaily: “Do you think so? I’ve 
always supposed that my eyes were inherited from 
a Swiss great-great-grandmother, my mouth and 
chin from an English ancestor and my nose from a 
French Huguenot. I rather think the only Irish 
member is my tongue, which is always trying to 
break bounds and getting bitten for its pains.” 


.Her American Daughter 31 

Thornton laughed appreciatively, and began 
counting on his fingers : ‘‘English, French, Swiss, 
Irish — ” 

“Dutch and Scotch/’ finished Ray as he paused. 
“Take equal portions of the first and second, flavor 
slightly with the remaining four, shake together for 
two centuries — ” 

“And you have a good American.” It was Russell 
who interrupted; there was a distinct challenge in 
his tone, and Ray felt it. 

“I am a Southerner!” she answered quickly. 

Peter laughed. “And she spells it with a capital 
S, too, while for all the other points of the compass 
a small letter is sufficient.” 

“And do you know why?” cried the girl with 
eyes alight. “Because there are no definite bounda- 
ries to the north and the east and the west : they are 
all relative terms. But Southerner — that means 
from Texas to Maryland, and nothing else. Ah! 
you can’t understand the kinship that exists among 
all Southerners. We are one family — brothers of 
the blood! You-all, north of Mason and Dixon’s 
line, are only step-relations ; we don’t feel bound to 
love you unless you are good !” 

“See how much more charitable we are !” exclaim- 
ed Thornton, with a twitching lip. “We can’t help 
loving you under all circumstances.” 

But the little Southerner was on the war-path; 
memory had suddenly furnished her with a cue. “So 
you may say !” she retorted, “it’s the fashion now to 
shake hands over the bloody chasm. But down in 
the bottom of your hearts is a germ of the sectional 


32 


Her American Daughter 


feeling that existed long before the war, and that is 
liable to spring up again at any moment ; your pub- 
lic men voice it, your journals reflect it! Oh! I hate 
the way some of you Yankees speak of us — ” 

Thornton lifted a protesting hand. “Hold there, 
Miss Woodward! We are not all Yankees. Take 
it out on Russell, if you like, — he comes from Bos- 
ton; but Fm a New Yorker and an ardent admirer 
of everything Southern — present company not 
excepted !” 

Already, however, Ray had begun to chastise the 
Irish member. She turned the conversation now 
with a smile and a gay retort, and a few minutes 
later she carried her stool across to Mrs. Stafford’s 
side. 

But Thornton’s laughing words had probed very 
close to the truth. Nothing less than a desire to 
“take it out on Russell” had prompted her sudden out- 
break; for, unless her memory was utterly at fault, 
his name was affixed to a magazine article that she 
had read on the voyage over, — had read with a 
strong sentiment of antagonism. It was entitled 
The Tidewater South Carolinian as an Element of 
the New South, and the writer’s viewpoint was not 
calculated to commend him to the subjects of his 
criticism. Certain passages recurring to her, Ray 
felt the embers of her resentment heating rapidly, 
and if she could have been certain of his authorship 
her acquaintance with Russell might have ended 
then and there. For the present, however, she 


*Her American Daughter 33 

decided to allow him the benefit of a doubt which a 
few hours would end — as the magazine was still in 
her steamer trunk at the hotel in Gibraltar. 

Amid darkness, fog and rain, the Hercules finally 
dropped anchor in the shadow of the giant Rock — 
that patient, solemn monolith that mounts guard 
through the centuries at the gate of Europe. Tonight 
it wore, like Atlas, a wreath of cloud upon its brow ; 
the black waters of the bay surged restlessly about 
its knees, but a girdle of jewels — the lighted win- 
dows of the town — gleamed brightly on the tired 
travelers as they disembarked. 

On the pier, while Russell was defending Mrs. 
Stafford and Ray from the attacks of several too in- 
sistent porters, and the three other men were settling 
the boatmen's fares, they heard the evening gun 
boom sullenly. It was half past nine. 

“Listen!" said Russell, “that's a gentle reminder 
that we are now under martial rule." 

“I've already received a sharper hint to the same 
effect," Ray laughingly admitted, “for a few days 
ago, when we first landed here, as we were taking a 
morning promenade about the town, I happened to 
linger innocently on a bridge overlooking some for- 
tifications, and a horrid red-coated soldier poked his 
bayonet at me and said Move on! My American 
independence has been resenting that act of British 
tyranny ever since." 

“Then you are sometimes an American — " began 
Russell, when Thornton interrupted him. 

“Mr. Stafford tells me that your party have rooms 
at the Bristol, and we have left our traps at the old 


34 Her American Daughter 

Royal Hotel ; so I’m afraid this is goodbye for me, 
as I expect to sail for New York in the morning. 
Russell, here, has the consoling prospect of meeting 
you again in Madrid; and my sister, Mrs. Dering, 
will be there also — I must tell Isabel to look you up. 
Try not to forget me utterly, Miss Woodward, 
before you return to your ain countree — ” he was 
shaking hands with her warmly, regretfully, “and I 
trust you will give me the opportunity of welcoming 
you on your arrival. A line to this address will 
always reach me — ” and he relinquished her hand to 
explore his pocket and cardcase. 

“Thank you,” said Ray, sighing wistfully, “it is 
always pleasant to find a welcome at a journey’s 
end ; but I’m afraid I won’t be able to claim mine for 
a long, long while. When we leave Madrid in the 
spring we are going to Paris for at least two years of 
hard study. If by that time I can’t get into the 
Salon, I may go home again; but Peter vows to 
remain till he has a picture on the line.” 

As she stood there in the dim light, a slim, bedrag- 
gled figure, the hood of her mackintosh pushed back 
and soft tendrils of her wet brown hair trailing like 
damp seaweed over her brow and colorless cheeks, 
she looked so pathetically young and forlorn — such 
a sad-eved little mermaid cast up on the shore, in 
the midst of the press and struggle and the hard dry 
facts of life — that Russell felt a sudden impulse to 
gather her up in his arms and bear her away into 
some peaceful haven. Instead, however, he merely 
offered her his hand. 


»Her American Daughter 


35 


“Goodbye, Miss Woodward, we will meet again 
in Madrid.” 

“Goodbye,” she answered briefly, and turning to 
Thornton wished him better weather on his next 
voyage. 

A moment later, with Peter and the Staffords, 
she was driving away to the hotel. 


CHAPTER IV 


The fifth piso of a certain tenement house in Mad- 
rid is a casa de huespedes. It is kept by an elderly 
Spanishwoman of the bourgeois class, whose modest 
business cards are printed in the name of Dolores 
Pacheco, with the addition below in much smaller 
type of the simple statement — Widow of Martinez. 
But although, according to local custom, Dona 
Dolores no longer bears the name of her dead hus- 
band, through all her strong and comely middle age 
she has had no thought of giving him a successor; 
for the memory of her Jose is still green in her heart. 
That heart of hers is very far from being tenantless, 
— what true woman’s ever is ? — but still the dearest 
guests are dreams of what might have been and 
memories of a happier past. 

One afternoon, about three days after the events 
recorded in our last chapter, Dona Dolores was writ- 
ing a letter — which she found a laborious task. 
Besides the scratching of her pen as it traveled 
across the flimsy sheet, the only sounds in the come- 
dor were the loud ticking of the painted wooden 
clock on the side-board shelf and the purring of 
Michito — an innocent fluff of black and white kitten- 
hood curled up on one end of the table. 

The short winter day was beginning to fade ; but 
through one of the narrow windows overlooking the 


iHer American Daughter 37 

court a rosy little sunbeam sidled in for a moment 
and flushed the old clock’s garish face, then — as 
though dismayed by the lateness of the hour — it 
suddenly disappeared, and shadows began to gather 
in the corners of the room. Still the comely figure 
bent over the table, and the noisy pen, in the grasp 
of the cramped brown fingers, sputtered and 
scratched. The kitten dreamed, and purred in whisp- 
ers ; but the voice of the clock grew louder and more 
emphatic. 

At last Dolores lifted her head, brushing away a 
soft lock of silver-gray hair that had fallen over her 
brow; a heavy sigh broke from her lips, the pen 
slipped from her fingers and she leaned back in her 
chair with lines of weary discouragement creeping 
out on her fine old face. Michito stopped purring, 
yawned, and suddenly uncoiling, put forth a curious 
paw and touched the red handle of the discarded pen 
as it rolled toward him ; then, seized by some kittenish 
whim, he leaped down from the table and crept softly 
under the faded yellow portieres that hung before a 
passage leading kitchenward. But the clock ticked 
on. And to Dolores it was saying, over and over : 

“Seven pesetas a day, seven pesetas a day !” 

With the sordid refrain ringing in her ears, she 
sat there, shut-eyed, and wrestled with her problem 
— the eternal problem of the poor, — how to make an 
insufficiency go farther still. Her own small income 
must be stretched to meet the wants of nine besides 
herself — and this was not the day of miraculous 
loaves and fishes! But here, at a swift conscience- 
stroke, her simple faith bestirred itself. Far be it 


38 


Her American Daughter 


from her to doubt the power of the Blessed Virgin 
and the saints ! Yet what had she ever done to merit 
miraculous assistance? Were there not thousands 
of others as hard pressed as she? An unreasonable 
irritation overcame her because at this of all seasons, 
when her house was nearly emptied of boarders, 
Pablo should have chosen to be laid up with a broken 
leg. Now there he was, with a poor sickly wife and 
seven children to be provided for, and none of them 
fit for work but a lad of seventeen ! The thought of 
her sister-in-law’s helplessness, and general incapac- 
ity for anything save the bearing of children, filled 
her with hot impatience. She blessed the saints that 
she had never been a drag upon Jose. While he lived, 
she had pinched and saved and eked out their scanty 
income by sewing from morning till night. And she 
had been saving and pinching ever since, — to what 
purpose? Two years ago, it was her sister’s girl 
who married and set up housekeeping; before that, 
there had been the mortgage on Pablo’s farm; and 
now, here was this new trouble. Whatever she laid 
by always went the same way — to supply other folks’ 
needs and to feed other folks’ children ! 

She glanced around the empty, silent room and 
sighed again, but the seven young nieces and 
nephews in Seville tugged strongly at her heart. Her 
promise of help was in that scrawled and blotted let- 
ter on the table, and somehow the money would have 
to be found. 

“Seven pesetas a day ! Seven pesetas ! Seven pese- 
tas !” ticked the clock, in warning tones. 


.Her American Daughter 


39 


There was the problem. The rent of her flat was 
just so much, — seven pesetas a day. Don Antonio 
paid her that for his board; Don Francisco did the 
same, and out of his seven pesetas must come three 
duros a month for Benita’s wage, the money for the 
grocer, the butcher, the baker, the fees to the por- 
tero and the sereno, and the tithes which the priest 
unfailingly exacted. What would there be left to 
give away ? There was no use trying to wring blood 
out of a stone! 

She had taken up the letter to destroy it, when she 
heard the sound of hurried footsteps on the bare 
wooden stairs, and the bell rang briskly. Rising at 
once, she smoothed with one hand her silver pompa- 
dour, with the other brushed the front of her plain 
black gown, and then hurried out into the hall. 

There was a small iron grating in the upper part 
of the thick paneled door that gave admittance to 
the flat, and through this Dolores peered curiously 
as she laid her hand upon the latch. A pair of laugh- 
ing gray eyes looked straight back into hers; they 
were so close against the bars that she could see noth- 
ing else except a white brow and a fluff of bronze- 
brown hair escaping from beneath the brim of a sim- 
ple walking hat. Dolores, being a Spanishwoman, 
instinctively condemned the masculine severity of 
the stranger’s headgear. That the wearer must be a 
foreigner was her second thought, and swift upon 
this followed a hope that the Blessed Virgin had sent 
her a new lodger. Quickly she turned the key, shot 
back the bolt and set the door wide to the strangers. 
For there were two of them. 


40 Her American Daughter 

The owner of the gray eyes had been standing 
upon tiptoe, her hand on the doorbell; now, as she 
drew back on the landing, she lost several inches in 
height. In that respect her companion lacked noth- 
ing, — he was over six feet tall and had the chest of 
a young athlete, but his round, boyish face with its 
merry blue eyes, its laughing mouth and dimpled 
chin would have seemed more appropriately set 
above a child’s beruffled collar than on the square 
shoulders that actually supported it. He held in one 
hand a small red book and a larger volume distended 
the pocket of his coat. 

“Buenas tardes, senora,” he said politely, and then 
proceeded to read aloud, with execrable accent: 
“Veo que tiene Usted cuartos para alquilar — ” 

“Hush ! Peter, and let me talk,” cried the girl, lay- 
ing one hand across the page of Polite Spanish Dia- 
logues. “My grammar may be sometimes defective, 
but at any rate I can understand both sides of the 
conversation ! Senora,” she continued, coloring 
warmly, “we are strangers in Madrid in search of 
board and lodging. Have you room for us— and 
for two friends of ours ?” 

The upturned face, the appealing eyes, the care- 
fully constructed Spanish, went straight to Dolores’ 
heart; she took the girl’s hand in hers and tucked it 
under her arm. “Come in, senorita ; my poor house 
is at your service ! We will confer together, you and 
I ; we can understand each other well, — is it not so ? 
You are English, both of you? No? Americans? Bet- 
ter still! I like them much, the Americans. How 
long do you desire to remain in Madrid? Three 


Her American Daughter 41 

months, you say ? Ah, what a clever Spanish tongue 
she has ! In three months, senorita, we can talk much 
together; I will be profesora, yes, and we will make 
of you a perfect Spanishwoman, — shall we not?” 

“I hope so,” said the girl, tilting her head back- 
ward and reflecting Dolores’ smile. 

“What’s all this ?” demanded Peter, halting on the 
threshold. “Miss Ray, have you asked her terms? 
Don’t commit yourself to anything! She’s an uncom- 
monly handsome old lady, but rather too affection- 
ate on such short acquaintance. If you look too 
pleased she may raise her prices ! I don’t trust any 
of these foreigners.” 

“Peter!” Ray turned on him indignantly, “your 
Yankee instincts are the destruction of all your 
finer sensibilities. Look at that face and dare to say 
you wouldn’t trust her!” Then she clasped both 
hands over the older woman’s arm. “Will you show 
us your rooms, senora?” 

“Come,” said Dolores, and led her into the come- 
dor — Peter marching behind with both hands in his 
pockets and dispassionate criticism in his eye. 

The brief twilight had failed rapidly and the room 
was in semi-obscurity; but Dolores called for lights, 
and Benita, the pretty maid-servant, came a-tiptoe, 
with eyes dancing and white teeth gleaming, and 
threw coy glances at the tall young sehor who said 
so little yet saw so much. She lit first the big lamp 
that hung over the dinner table and then a taper set 
in a tall brass candlestick. With this she led the way 
from room to room, and the others followed, Dolores 
talking briskly and Ray asking many questions at 


42 


•Her American Daughter 


the suggestion of Peter, who fluttered the pages of 
his Spanish lexicon and supplied on demand the defi- 
ciencies in his friend’s vocabulary. 

“This is vastly better than any other place we’ve 
seen,” was the verdict from Ray, “so I hope Mrs. 
Stafford won’t object to the stairs. There were six 
flights, weren’t there Peter?” 

“Eighty-nine steps,” he declared, “I counted them 
as we came up. However, we are all young enough 
to stand them. I’m rather favorably impressed 
myself,” and he took appreciative note of the rosy 
lights on Benita’s rounded chin as she set the taper 
down upon the table and puffed out the jet of flame. 

“Does it please you ?” asked Dolores anxiously. 

“Oh, very much, senora — ” 

“Don’t commit yourself!” warned Peter again. 
“Here’s a sentence in the Dialogues that exactly fits ! 
'Manana volvere para darle a Usted contestacion.’ — 
Which means that tomorrow, Mrs. Stafford permit- 
ting, we’ll come back and clinch the bargain !” 

And return they did, bright and early, to the very 
great relief and satisfaction of Dolores, who 
promptly vowed a candle to the shrine of her patron 
saint. Before nightfall the whole party was installed 
under her roof ; and, the next day, Ray despatched to 
her twin sister at home a letter which it will be our 
prerogative to read. 


Madrid, January 25th, 1896. 

My Dear Louise : 

Do you recollect, when we were a pair of very 
small children in pinafores and pigtails, how often 


Her American Daughter 


43 


on rainy winter days we used to take our favorite 
story books and set them up edgeways on the garret 
stairs, with the covers slightly open — like gates ajar, 
while we huddled on a lower step with our hands 
over our eyes and wished hard — or prayed? — that 
some dearly loved picture would “come alive” and 
walk out of the book to play with us, or that we 
might exchange places with any two of those compla- 
cent damsels on the page and frolic together “in pict- 
ure land” when the book was closed to alien human 
eyes ? Do you remember how an unfeeling Big Boy 
discovered this fond hope one day — and laughed at 
us? It was an offense I never quite forgave. But 
now I commission you to tell my brother-in-law 
that, verily, that miracle has happened ! Either have 
I stepped between the pages of a wonderful book — 
or else a whole realm of pictures has “come alive to 
play with me!” The illustrators were Murillo and 
Ribera, Goya and Velazquez; but their models still 
walk the streets. I dream for hours before the fig- 
ures on some great canvas in the Royal Museum — 
and then I go and talk to them on the street corner. 
Conceive of it if you can, a pictured world and a 
world of pictures ! In only one respect do they dif- 
fer from that painted country of our dreams ; all is 
not beautiful, and the context does not tell us that 
“they lived happily forever after.” Wherever there 
is the riot of color, the glitter of the torero’s spangles 
or the picturesque draping of a mantilla, it reads like 
a romance ; but the next page tells us of suffering, of 


44 


•Her American Daughter 


sordid poverty. I have seen pictured deformity and 
painted sores, and I have met them on the sidewalk 
and had them thrust in my very face ! 

I don’t know yet whether I most hate it or love 
it — this wonderful Madrid, — this city of beggars 
and princes, of hovels and palaces, of dazzling sunny 
streets and dark cavernous rooms, where the people 
seem most at home when they are out of doors. I 
find myself bewildered by its contrasts and its con- 
tradictions. It is far more modern in appearance 
than I expected to find it ; in many particulars — such 
as street cars, electric lights and elevators (though 
the latter are hydraulic lifts that carry you up but 
refuse to bring you down) it is quite of the nine- 
teenth century, even fin-de-siecle in occasional 
streaks. But this must be the result of an uncon- 
scious evolution on the part of these inanimate 
things, for the inhabitants all seem to belong to a 
bygone generation. It is a city full of Rip Van 
Winkles, who have slept for a century without 
growing any older, and awaking among modernized 
conditions appear unable to adjust themselves to the 
change. 

But — to return to your sister Ray, in whom you 
are probably more interested — be assured that I am 
adjusting myself very comfortably to my new abode. 
I have unpacked my trunk, and now I am reveling 
in the sunshine that streams through the glass doors 
of my high French window. 

This is a tenement house : the two lowest stories 
are occupied by a fashionable dry goods establish- 
ment, the proprietor of which lives on the piso 


Her American Daughter 


45 


above; over him is a wine merchant and over the 
wine merchant are we ! However, we have the sat- 
isfaction of living under a dressmaker, who occupies 
the attic suite (where we can but trust that she cul- 
tivates philosophy and so is enabled to congratulate 
herself on having nobody between her and the sun !) 

These interesting details I gathered from Dona 
Dolores when she came in here a while ago to water 
the geraniums in the six inches of balcony outside 
my window. As she stood there among the flower 
pots, with the sunlight glistening on her silver hair, 
I wished so much that you could see her. Her eyes 
are black and brilliant, her complexion is of a clear 
olive tint, and her face is covered with a fine tracery 
of wrinkles that vanish now and then in lines of 
laughter. Her voice, even in conversation, has a 
timbre that thrills one; and if you could hear her 
feeding her pets (a round dozen of birds and an 
impish kitten called Michito) and crooning to them 
in soft love words and diminutives, you would think 
the Spanish language was the most musical in the 
world. I must tell you how we happened to discover 
her. 

The afternoon of our arrival, Mrs. Stafford had 
a headache and Mr. Stafford was tracing a piece of 
luggage that had gone astray; so Peter and I, 
being of an economical and enterprising turn of 
mind, started out alone in search of lodgings. We 
obtained a long list of casas de huespedes and began 
what proved a most depressing tour of inspection. 
Some places were unspeakable — such an odor of 
garlic ! such dingy rooms ! such shrill voiced, slat- 


46 . Her American Daughter 

ternly females! Others again were too dear. One 
stout senora in shiny black silk demanded even more 
than the hotels, — she doubtless expected us to bar- 
gain with her for less, but Peter read a valedictory 
from the phrase book which he always carries In 
his pocket and whisked me away before I had time 
to speak. 

Night was coming on and we were completely 
tired out ; but on our list was still another casa and 
thither we turned our steps. It was on the Calle 
Mayor, one of the main thoroughfares of the city, 
and only a few doors from the great square called the 
Puerta del Sol. We passed a row of plate glass 
windows draped in gorgeous stuffs and came to a 
huge brass-knockered door that yawned on the 
pavement. There we inquired of the portero — a 
brown gnome in spectacles — how we should find the 
Senora Pacheco’s apartments. He pointed to the 
stairway at the end of the hall, turned on the elec- 
tric lights that starred the ascent, and said : “Third 
floor.” 

The wooden steps were bare and uneven, worn by 
the tread of countless feet, and the hard knots, 
though they were polished smooth, bulged like cob- 
ble stones. We toiled up, breathless, for three 
weary flights, and then Peter shouted, “Look at 
that!” 

On the plastered wall in large black letters was the 
word PRIMERO. 

“I’ve counted forty steps already,” he exclaimed 
disgustedly. “That word’s an insult !” 


.Her American Daughter 


47 


Remembering suddenly the plate glass windows, 
I sat down on the landing and laughed, laughed that 
I might not cry. It was a breathless chuckle, Peter 
said, and he sat by me and laughed too. You’d like 
Peter ; he hasn’t a cross bone in his big, healthy body, 
— in fact, I think he is all funny bone. 

We made a race for it when we started again, and 
I got there first (by courtesy!) and pulled the bell. 
Dolores opened the door for us ; and she was so tall 
and beautiful and motherly, and her rooms were so 
homelike and so clean, and the little brass bed in 
here seemed to say so coaxingly, “Come and rest, 
poor child!” that I just longed to tumble into it at 
once! 

The atmosphere of this elevated boarding house 
is quite free of my two pet aversions — garlic and 
bohemianism. Despite the absence of the former, 
however, it is thoroughly Spanish. I realized that last 
night when we assembled for dinner in the comedor, 
where Benita, the maid, fluttered coquettishly 
around the fruit laden table, impartially sharing her 
smiles between Peter and our two fellow boarders — 
Don Antonio and Don Francisco. These Caballeros, 
by the way, are quite unexceptionable elements : the 
former is an elderly man, well bred and deferential, 
with a spark of humor in his eye ; the latter, a hand- 
some young lieutenant, ardently polite, though 
regrettably gauche in his manner of eating. But the 
personality that dominates all others is that of 
Dolores. She must be nearly sixty, there are 
moments when she looks quite that; and yet, in the 
glow of the shaded lamp last night, she was beauti- 
ful and young. . . . . 


CHAPTER V 


To know all the cafes of Madrid with their 
characteristic features, the rank and quality of their 
patrons, the flavor of their tobacco, the brand or 
vintage of their popular beverages and the news- 
papers which are studied habitually at their tables, 
is to know the city itself. But the two which prob- 
ably have the greatest prestige are those located 
directly opposite each other on the Calle de Alcala, 
and to be a frequenter of either is to belong to a priv- 
ileged class. Owing to their judicial attitude toward 
all matters social, artistic and literary, the wits of 
Madrid have dubbed them the “Congreso” and the 
“Senado.” To the latter belong the patrons of the 
Cafe Suizo, where bald-headed conservatism — while 
decorously sipping its coffee or sherry — tries every- 
thing by the standard of a generation ago, and is 
returning home to bed at the hour when its neighbor 
over the way is at the meridian of its popularity. For 
the Cafe Fornos is haunted by young litterateurs, 
officials and students, — by all progressive, rich 
and gay Madrid that every night devours the 
Heraldo and the Correspondence, discussing with 
youthful fervor all the questions of the moment, and 
weighing the merits of the popular singer, the latest 
writer, the most recent enterprise, the newest phrase, 
anecdote or bit of gossip in circulation. 


*Her American Daughter 


49 


When the other cafes begin to be deserted, the 
red baize doors that screen the main entrance of the 
Fornos are swinging ceaselessly to admit the stream 
of new arrivals coming in as usual to sup after the 
close of the theatre; and every little marble table 
has its regular waiter who recognizes his clientele 
and gives to each one his accustomed seat. There- 
fore, when any one enters the Fornos alone, and 
ignorantly takes possession of any seat he pleases, 
he may perceive by the very distant glances of his 
neighbors that he has been guilty of a mistake: at 
the very least he has broken into a coterie uninvited. 

It was his knowledge of this that caused a late 
comer one night to hesitate for some seconds before 
seating himself at one of the few tables that at half- 
past eleven o'clock still remained empty, and as he 
was in the act of drawing back his chair he saw 
before him — reflected in one of the large mirrors that 
line the walls — a group of three young men 
approaching the same corner. Instantly removing 
his hand from the back of the chair, he turned toward 
them with a little gesture of apology; but one of the 
three, perceiving him to be a foreigner, politely dis- 
owned any prior right to that particular table and led 
his companions to the one beyond. 

As they took their places with a careless greeting 
to the obsequious waiter, the stranger had a fair 
opportunity of studying them. Two were in military 
uniform; the third was a civilian, but his dress 
exhibited all the affectations and extravagances that 
mark the devotee of fashion. His face, too, although 
handsome enough, showed evidences of dissipation 


50 < Her American Daughter 

in the unhealthy pallor of the cheek and the restless- 
ness of the brilliant eyes. He wore, on the little 
finger of his right hand, a magnificent ring which 
flashed green fire as he lifted the bottle of Valde- 
penas, set before him by the alert waiter, and poured 
a few drops into his glass. 

“Shall we fill to Francisco’s latest?” he inquired, 
smiling sarcastically at the younger of the two offi- 
cers, who colored uncomfortably at the jeering tone, 
till the elder, with serene good humor, declared a 
willingness to stand sponsor for the lady’s pretty 
face. 

It was to the courtesy of this third member of the 
group that the stranger was in debt, and he noted 
now that, while the younger officer’s rank was only 
that of a lieutenant, this one wore the insignia of a 
captain in the Royal Guards and, in appearance, 
was undoubtedly the most aristocratic of the three. 

“Come then, Francisco,” exclaimed the first 
speaker, “here’s to ‘La Reina Americana’ ! — But 
what has that plebeian nation to do with queens?” 
He held his glass against the light and critically 
inspected its contents. “This is much too good to be 
thrown away on the health of any Yankee senorita. 
Pues ! I give you a substitute in the new soubrette 
at the Teatro de la Comedia who has the neatest 
foot and ankle in Madrid!” 

“To be thrown away!” echoed the lieutenant, 
turning with an embarrassed laugh to his brother- 
in-arms. “Don Teodoro reflects upon our taste, 
considering that he has never seen the young lady 
himself.” 


Her American Daughter 


51 


The civilian leaned back in his chair and yawned 
audibly behind his delicate ringed fingers. “The 
Americans, Francisco mio — ” he was beginning, 
with cool familiarity, when the captain lightly 
touched his arm and, glancing significantly toward 
the solitary occupant of the next table, suggested a 
change of topic. 

Five minutes later, Russell — for it was he — 
pushed aside his empty cup and was quietly leav- 
ing the cafe; but near the door a chorus of voices 
greeted him warmly by name, and he was drawn, 
willingly enough, into one of the brightest tertulias 
that the Fornos boasted, composed of several lit- 
erary men and young attaches of the foreign lega- 
tions. 

To the table which he had just vacated, the three 
young Spaniards moved over immediately with an 
air of proprietorship, the captain remarking that the 
stranger had been both courteous and considerate. 

“Surprisingly so, if he is really an American,” 
declared Don Teodoro with an eloquent shrug, “for 
as a nation they are vulgarly obtrusive and tenacious 
of their rights.” 

“Not always, I assure you,” Francisco inter- 
rupted. “In my experience the men have been well 
bred and the women modest and refined.” 

“In your experience,” repeated Teodoro, with a 
slight stress on the pronoun and an insolent smile, 
“but my dear Francisco, has not that been rather 
limited — so far as Americans are concerned?” 

The saving clause was added after an interval of 
sufficient length to send the hot blood to the temples 


52 Her American Daughter 

of the young man opposite, who was vaguely con- 
scious that his military education had hardly sufficed 
to overcome the deficiencies of a provincial breeding. 
Again his brother officer came good-naturedly to his 
aid. 

“Probably, cousin, your own experience has been 
no wider, — and at present Don Francisco has the 
advantage of us both in living under the same roof 
with the most piquant little Yankee I have ever seen. 
Such killing eyes, amigo mio! If a regiment of them 
were sent to Cuba on a filibustering expedition, I 
would back them against Weyler and his entire 
army.” 

Francisco shook his head dubiously. “But so 
modest, my dear captain, so discreet !” 

“Yes,” agreed the other thoughtfully, “I believe 
the chief charm of the American senoritas is their 
perfect freedom in the society of men — up to a cer- 
tain point, a fixed line which they never overstep.” 

“Vaya, Enrique, that is all nonsense!” laughed 
Teodoro, who had been blowing smoke rings with 
the proficiency of an expert. “All nonsense — if you 
will pardon my saying so,” he repeated, dropping his 
right hand lightly on the marble slab with due 
regard for the glowing ash on the end of his Havana. 
“Women of all races are fundamentally the same : so 
long as they are young and beautiful their discretion 
is limited by the horizon of their duennas; and 
when youth and beauty fade, having no longer any 
temptations of their own, they play the dragon for 
their juniors.” 


Her American Daughter 


53 


“I protest, Teodoro, you are too sweeping. 
Because you are not over nice yourself in the com- 
pany you keep is no reason why you should forget 
that we have mothers and sisters — and possibly 
sweethearts of our own !” cried the captain, striking 
his palm against the table with a great show of indig- 
nation. 

The ash of Teodoro’s cigar trembled and fell; but, 
beyond a regretful smile and a slight shrug of the 
shoulders, he made no comment. 

“The American senorita — ” ventured Francisco, 
quoting a recent assertion of Miss Woodward’s, “is 
her own duenna.” 

“And like Cupid — ” retorted the skeptic, “she 
doubtless wears a bandage over her eyes.” 

The captain again took up the cudgels warmly. “I 
once had the good fortune to be intimate in an 
American family of refinement, but you — you are 
arguing from idle prejudice.” 

Teodoro laughed; his amiability was of the kind 
that thrives best in a sulphurous atmosphere. “Let 
us not quarrel, Enrique mio, rather let us put this 
matter to a practical test. Is Francisco’s pretty 
friend a fair type of the American senorita ? She is, 
you think? Bueno! Then let us appoint her cham- 
pion for the women of her nation, and I — even I, 
Teodoro — will enter the lists against her. I ven- 
ture to say that in six months I could effectually shat- 
ter your pretty illusions. What say you, Francisco ? 
She will be here but three months longer? Well, 
even that will be sufficient for me. I am willing to 
wager that without any conventional aids — without 


54 


i Her American Daughter 


even an introduction, I can place myself on such a 
familiar footing that she will consent to sup with me 
here at this table, at this hour of the night, in such 
company as I shall choose, unchaperoned. That, I 
imagine, will be rather overstepping the borders of 
even American propriety,” and he laughed softly as 
he lighted a fresh cigar. 

It was then midnight, and the atmosphere of the 
cafe was so heavy with tobacco smoke that the rich 
gilding and frescoes of the ceiling could be but dimly 
seen, and the lights burned redly. The rows of little 
marble tables were extended into infinity by the 
mirrors around the walls, and nearly all of them 
were crowded ; but only here and there amid all the 
sombre company of black coats occurred the brighter 
note of a woman’s gown. 

In the cafes of the new regime, on the Puerta del 
Sol or the Carrera de San Jeronimo, which have 
special accommodations for ladies, and excel in 
French chocolate and biscuit-glace, this dispropor- 
tion is not so great. It is, of course, no impropriety 
for women suitably attended to patronize the Fornos 
after theatre hours ; but its fair guests are in a very 
small minority, and late at night belong chiefly to the 
class which is willing to dispense altogether with the 
chaperon. 

For a moment after Don Teodoro had given his 
challenge, the other two men were silent. An uneasy 
flush mounted to Francisco’s brow, and he sincerely 
regretted bestowing on his fellow boarder the lavish 
encomiums which had brought about the present pre- 
dicament. Truth to tell, Miss Woodward’s stand- 


Her American Daughter 


55 


ards of propriety were something of a mystery to 
him; he had seen her more than once go out with 
Peter unattended, and he feared the possibility of a 
perfectly innocent acceptance of Don Teodoro’s invi- 
tation, which- — although much could be condoned in 
an American — would be apt to put her in an ugly 
light before some of the scandal loving gossips of the 
Fornos. He waited, therefore, in silence, for his 
companion to give the cue. 

Don Enrique leaned forward across the table and 
looked the young civilian in the eye. “Because I 
wish your abominable vanity to receive a- wholesome 
lesson, Teodoro, I will take your wager.” 

Francisco’s brow cleared suddenly, but the other 
frowned with quick suspicion. 

“Vamos ! I must have fair play. If Francisco ever 
interferes, the wager is off — remember that! He 
must give us his word of honor to keep silence.” 

“As a gentleman and a soldier, caballero,” cried 
the young lieutenant, coloring hotly, “how could I 
do otherwise?” 

“And we are fortunate in having him to hold the 
stakes,” said the senior officer, with a reassuring 
glance at his young comrade. 

“Let them be large enough, then, to make the 
game exciting,” urged the civilian, emptying his 
wineglass and refilling it twice in quick succession. 
“There must be something to lend spice to the adven- 
ture, for the lady’s charms alone may prove insuf- 
ficient — I haven’t seen her yet.” 


56 ; Her American Daughter 

“I can point her out to you some afternoon on the 
Puerta del Sol,” proposed Francisco. “She passes 
there constantly on her way to and from the Royal 
Museum.” 

“Agreed,” said the other. “Now what shall the 
stakes be? — Stay, I have it! We both hold lottery 
tickets for the sorteo on the first of May — what do 
you say, Enrique ? Shall we stake our chances on the 
lady?” 

“With all my heart,” cried the captain promptly, 
“I’ve never had the luck to draw a centimo in my 
life, but I live in hope.” 

The two gray-green slips were laid on the table 
before Francisco, who called for writing materials ; 
and after sealing them both in one envelope and 
endorsing that carefully, he proceeded to write out, 
for each party to the wager, a signed memorandum 
of the number of his ticket. 

“.The beauty of this — ” remarked Teodoro, with 
the zest of a born gambler, “is that we multiply our 
chances. Ordinarily, we have about one hundred 
in thirty thousand of winning anything at all. Now 
I may draw a prize on Enrique’s ticket, or my own, 
or even on both — ” 

“Granting that they are not waste paper as usual, 
you are far more likely to lose on both !” exclaimed 
the officer. “Anyhow, you multiply the cons as well 
as the pros.” 

“For you, perhaps,” said Teodoro shrewdly, 
“your part in the wager being a passive one. But I 
have also a few other points in my favor — ” and he 


Her American Daughter 57 

waved an airy gesture toward the mirror at his side. 

“Confound you!” laughed Enrique, “if you are 
not the most incorrigible coxcomb in Madrid.” 

Francisco now laid aside his pen. “This is yours, 
Don Teodoro, 11,003.” Then presenting to his 
brother officer a similar paper, he remarked : “Rather 
a happy combination, my dear captain, — nine thous- 
and, nine hundred and eighty-one. The first two fig- 
ures are multiples of the last pair and the whole 
is divisible by nine : it ought to be a lucky number.” 

“So I thought when I bought it,” the captain 
acknowledged, much to the amusement of the young 
civilian. 

“If that is your system, cousin, I’m not surprised 
that you never win anything. Try mine — it’s vastly 
better. Carlota Velasco, the pretty little glove dealer 
on the Arenal, has always a few lottery tickets on 
sale, and every month she reserves the first of her 
block for me.” 

“And what commission do you allow Dona Car- 
Iota for her trouble in the matter?” asked the cap- 
tain gravely. 

Teodoro caressed his black mustache with a sig- 
nificant smile. “My dear Enrique — ” he protested, 
“that is altogether my affair.” 

“If that is your system,” retorted the other, “I’m 
not surprised that you never win anything. You 
know the old adage concerning those who are lucky 
in love.” 

“But I drew five hundred duros last December, — 
so you see, amigo mio, that favoritism is not 
unknown upon Olympus.” 


58 Her American Daughter 

Don Enrique leaned back in his chair with an air 
of exasperation. “Say, rather, that the devil takes 
care of his own !” 

About one o’clock the coterie which Russell had 
joined began to disintegrate, and soon he himself 
withdrew in company with a young French news- 
paper correspondent who had been sitting next to 
him during the evening. Outside the cafe they 
paused a. moment, in the dark and silent street, to 
glance in through the wide plate glass windows at 
the bright scene they had just left. 

By this time about two-thirds of the tables were 
abandoned, and in the deserted corners, a sleepy 
looking waiter was extinguishing the lights, so that 
the illumination might be proportionate to the guests 
remaining. Of these, a goodly number would linger 
on for an hour or more ; indeed, it usually happened 
that the first pallid streaks of daylight were begin- 
ning to whiten the eastern sky when, through the 
little man-hole in the heavy barred doors, the last of 
the convivial party crept out from the heated, close 
interior, tainted with the fumes of stale tobacco, into 
the still, cold freshness of the morning air. 

“.Tell me — ” said Russell suddenly to his com- 
panion, “you seem to know the names of everybody 
in Madrid, — who are those three young men sitting 
at that corner table?” 

“You mean the two officers and that young lechu- 
guino, as the Spaniards would call him, — a macaroni 
— dandy — fop — what is your latest English word? 
Yes, I know them all by sight, and with two I have 


Her American Daughter 59 

even a slight acquaintance. As for the third, he is 
nobody in particular, a young lieutenant detailed 
here to drill recruits — the raw material from the 
surrounding provinces who understand as much 
about handling a rifle as they do about the true origin 
of this miserable Cuban war. The officer in epaulets 
and the — the dude are cousins, the last scions of a 
noble house, Don Enrique and Don Teodoro de Sil- 
vela.” 

“They are very different in appearance.” 

“And the unlikeness is more than skin deep. Don 
Enrique is a man of high character — generous, 
quixotic and at all times the soul of honor. But Teo- 
doro — well, you can see for yourself what stuff he is 
made of — un beau gargon who would ruin his best 
friend at cards or betray the woman who trusted 
him.” 

Russell’s brow contracted in a sudden frown, and 
his eyes — which could at will be gravely tender, 
humorous or sternly cold — flashed a keen glance 
now through the plate glass window. To his com- 
panion he said no more on the subject, but in his own 
thoughts rose an insistent question that haunted him 
long after he had returned to his hotel : What did 
that fellow mean by “La Reina Americana” ? There 
were very few Americans now in Madrid. 


CHAPTER VI 


“Pm all ready, Peter.” 

That youth, appearing in the doorway of the 
senora’s dining room, fell into an attitude of admira- 
tion as he caught sight of Ray, sitting patiently 
beside the table. 

“My, what a swell you are ! In the local idiom, I 
am at your feet.” 

“With equal truth, sir, I kiss your hand,” and she 
threw a laugh at him — a jocund trill, that was the 
natural expression of her holiday mood, the frank 
admission of her holiday attire. 

“I like your sombrero,” said Peter, walking round 
her, his hands in his pockets and his head on one side, 
inspecting with the familiarity of a brother and the 
privilege of an artist the delicate profile under the 
wide black hat. 

“So does the senora, — she says it is ‘mas gracioso’ 
than the one I usually wear.” 

“And your frock — ” 

“Don’t be silly, Peter; you’ve seen it a dozen 
times.” 

“Well, you have quite an elegant appearance for 
a struggling art student. It must be the gloves, — 
spick and span, aren’t they?” 

Ray extended two slender pearl colored hands for 
his inspection. “Bought this morning of Dona Car- 


Her American Daughter 


61 


lota Velasco, the presiding genius of a glove shop on 
the Arenal, who is as pretty — to use your favorite 
simile — as pink shoes. I recommend her to. your 
most noble patronage.” 

“I can’t afford to buy new gloves till I begin to 
economize on pins,” said Peter with a conscious 
laugh, as he drew forth a paper from his pocket and 
tossed it in the centre of the table. “That’s my fourth 
this week.” 

Ray’s eyebrows traveled upward, and she chanted 
saucily : 


“ ‘I’ll buy from you a paper of pins, 

For that’s the way that love begins; 

But I’ll not marry you, you, you — 

But I’ll not marry you!’ 

Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Don Pedro?” 

“Nonsense !” cried the boy, “when it comes to fall- 
ing in love — ” He dropped into a chair beside her 
and began an impatient tattoo on the long bare table. 

“Here’s our chaperon at last. Come and be 
admired, Mrs. Stafford, Peter is very susceptible to 
fine clothes.” 

Mrs. Stafford smiled. There was always some- 
thing pathetic in Mrs. Stafford’s smiles, — the kind 
of pathos one finds in the bleached roses of a last 
Easter’s bonnet when they reappear in a brave but 
transparent pretense at springtime freshness and fes- 
tivity. 

“Peter looks very nice himself,” she said kindly. 
“Are you excited, Ray, at the prospect of meeting 
some Americans again ?” 


62 ,Her American Daughter 

“I am more excited at the thought of drinking a 
cup of tea, for I haven’t tasted anything but coffee 
since I came to Spain. Isn’t Mr. Stafford coming 
with us?”. 

“Pm sorry,” explained his wife, as they began the 
long descent to the street, “but you know he isn’t 
fond of meeting strangers. He was afraid there 
would be a lot of tourists there — people who talk art 
in quotations from the guide book.” 

“I hope not,” said Ray carelessly, “but we needn’t 
discuss art at all; we can talk about Cook’s tickets 
and hotels and the mysterious scales at all railway 
stations that accuse one’s trunks of accumulating 
additional pounds on the journey even as a ship does 
barnacles. — How very dismal this long passage is 
in the afternoon! — Now, Peter, if you only could 
find us a pumpkin, six fat mice and a couple of green 
lizards, we might ride away in state.” 

Outside, drawn up along the sidewalk, were a line 
of cabs, each with the sign Se Alquila — To Hire. 
.The cocheros were nodding in their seats, with their 
blankets tucked well around their knees and their 
coat collars turned up as a protection against the 
biting wind. 

“Which shall I hail ?” asked Peter, “the one in the 
shiny stovepipe hat with the pretense at a cockade ?” 

“By all means; it might pass for a livery in the 
dark — for it will be night by the time we reach 
there.” 

“To the American Minister’s,” he loftily com- 
manded as they took their seats, but the cochero 
shook his head uncomprehendingly. 


Her American Daughter 


63 


“Just give him the street and number,” advised 
Mrs. Stafford sensibly. 

But Peter had his own ideas. “It’s his business to 
know,” he said, and shouted again: “El Ministro 
Americano! — I say, Miss Ray, what’s the Spanish 
for Star Spangled Banner?” 

“Numero veintiuno, Calle Serrano,” she re- 
sponded innocently; and when he had repeated the 
words after her the cochero cracked his whip and 
started off at a rattling pace. 

“I thought that would fetch him,” Peter said com- 
placently, and then he wondered why the others 
laughed. 

It was cold, a crisp dry cold that brought the red 
blood into the cheeks of the boy and girl and whit- 
ened the lips of the older woman, who shivered 
slightly and drew back into a corner. 

“Shall we close the glasses?” asked Ray quickly. 

“Thank you, dear; I’m not so warm blooded as 
you and Peter,” and she smiled faintly, — the exuber- 
ant life of these two often stung her into conscious- 
ness of her own fading youth. For her there was 
po possible aftermath to the brief hour of bloom 
that had won the love of her artist husband when 
she herself was a girl student at the League. It had 
come after a colorless childhood, as suddenly as 
spring in the wan woods, with a soft flush in the 
cheek and a shimmer in the pale yellow hair. But in 
her brief married life she had had to assume so large 
a share of the burden and heat of the day that the 
prettiness had vanished suddenly, just as wild 
flower petals fall. 


64 Her American Daughter 

When the cochero turned into the Calle Serrano, 
another carriage wheeled into line behind him and 
drew up also before the residence of the American 
Minister. Our three artists had traversed the lower 
hall and entered the elevator when the occupants of 
the second vehicle alighted, but as the elevator 
ascended Peter caught a glimpse of them, on the 
threshold. 

“I do believe that’s Mr. Russell! I didn’t know 
he was in Madrid. — What luck to meet him here!” 
he added cheerily, and Mrs. Stafford warmly echoed 
him ; but the third member of the party maintained 
a profound silence till they were ushered into the 
presence of their hostess. 

The room was filled with the sibilant murmur of 
English-speaking voices and the fragrance of Eng- 
lish tea. While responding to greetings and introduc- 
tions, Ray was acutely conscious that the portieres 
behind her were drawn aside to admit more visitors ; 
but despite a gentle nudge from her companion, she 
refrained from looking around. 

“I told you so,” persisted Peter. “I knew it was 
Russell. My ! but he has a pretty girl in tow ! Now 
that’s the sort of woman / admire.” 

Turning then, she perceived that two ladies had 
accompanied the author ; one was quite elderly, but 
the other appeared to be not more than twenty-five. 
She was richly dressed in very slight mourning, and 
despite Peter’s known susceptibility to “fine clothes” 
Ray acquitted him now of any such reasons for his 


Her American Daughter 


65 


naive outburst, the attractiveness of the wearer’s face 
and figure being quite independent of her silks and 
chiffons. 

In the reassignment of seats attendant on the 
arrival of these guests and the departure of some 
others, Ray found herself on a sofa beside this 
stranger with Peter in rapturous propinquity. 
Across the room, Mr. Russell was tete a tete with 
Mrs. Stafford; but while he listened to the kindly 
platitudes of his companion, his eyes frequently wan- 
dered to the group of young people opposite. 

Between himself and the little Southerner had 
flashed a single glance of recognition — one of those 
swift and subtle looks that at the moment seem so 
eloquent yet are so open to misconstruction. Russell’s 
was intended to signify pleasure in the encounter, 
but no surprise ; it was as though he had declared : 
Yes, we have met by chance, but without it I would 
have found you again. Ray, however, while her 
eyes said, Is it you ? had thrilled with resentment, — 
for this was the man whose printed words had stung 
her to the very quick. So it happened that, as their 
glances met, the vivid thought in each mind blinded 
it to the message of the other; and while the man 
contented himself for the present with her bright 
blush and grave regard, the girl was wishing herself 
out of his sight. Her cheeks burned painfully, a big 
lump rose in her throat, and with a rush of homesick- 
ness she realized that there was no one at hand to 
whom she could turn for sympathy — not even her 
friend Peter, for his too was the alien viewpoint. 
Her own was incomprehensible except to those who 


66 


Her American Daughter 


had grown up from childhood under the same condi- 
tions. The generation that was born in the South 
during the period of reconstruction came into the 
world without a country. But it was too much to ask 
of the ardent young that all their devotion should be 
paid at the shrine of a lost cause, and many to whom 
a broad patriotism was denied found an outlet for 
their enthusiasm in love of home, pride of family and 
loyalty to their native State. Our heroine was one of 
these, and Russell in his severe criticism of the tide- 
water section of South Carolina had trampled ruth- 
lessly upon her tenderest feelings. 

“I have heard so much about you, Miss Wood- 
ward/’ it was the stranger who opened the conversa- 
tion. “My brother wrote me from Gibraltar — the 
most entertaining epistle I have ever received from 
Hal! — giving me a full account of your voyage 
together on that wretched steamer. According to 
him, you were a delicious combination of an artist, 
a sea maid and an unreconstructed rebel — ” she 
broke off there, arching her delicate brows apolo- 
getically. “Fancy my venturing to tell you so ! But 
really, I’ve been looking forward with such pleasure 
to meeting you — all of you,” and she included Peter 
with a gracious gesture and a very charming smile. 

Ray, however, was quite unmoved by the evident 
friendliness in the pretty, well bred tones ; her pride 
had been too recently wounded, and she wondered if 
Mrs. Dering’s interest was not entirely due to curi- 
osity. Was it because she, Ray, belonged to a new 
species ? 


Her American Daughter 67 

“I think,” she answered in a chilling voice, “you 
will find us too much like other people to be at all 
interesting.” 

“Oh, I have known artists before,” cried the other 
gaily, “and they are always charming company. 
They seem to get the cream of everything, wherever 
the go. Now we commonplace individuals do our 
sightseeing in a perfunctory way; we live in hotels 
and we meet the traveling public instead of getting 
into the life of the people whose country we are sup- 
posed to be ‘doing/ That’s the worst of a courier,” 
she continued with a helpless sigh, “no doubt ours is 
as good as the average, but of course he is in league 
with the Philistines ; so we have traveled the beaten 
track of the tourist, from Paris to Madrid, and seen 
the conventional thing and paid the customary fee 
and met a lot of tiresome people and altogether had 
an abominably dull time. — Why didn’t you persuade 
Hal to come on with you ? I’m sure he only needed a 
little persuasion.” 

Ray opened her gray eyes with a puzzled stare. 
“You mean Mr. Thornton? Why, I hardly knew 
him at all.” 

“Oh, I supposed you had seen a great deal of each 
other. He had to go home on business, — or so he 
said. Hal thinks himself a very important member 
of the firm, but everybody knows his partners attend 
to everything, — he might just as well have stayed 
another month. We had planned such a lovely tour 
through the south of Spain. Did you stop anywhere 
on your way up ?” 

“Only at Cordova,” Peter replied. 


68 Her American Daughter 

“You see we don’t belong to the traveling public,” 
added Ray in explanation, — she was rapidly thaw- 
ing. “We don’t see half the conventional things, I 
am sorry to say. Our work was before us in the gal- 
lery here and we couldn’t afford to lose any more 
time.” 

“You are studying Velazquez, of course, — a mag- 
nificent collection, isn’t it! You’ve been here about 
a fortnight, I believe. Have you made many 
acquaintances ?” 

The two young artists exchanged glances of 
amusement. “Not exactly among the haute 
noblesse,” said the girl demurely, and Peter had just 
begun to explain that they were on terms of intimacy 
with quite a large circle of beggars and small trades- 
people when another voice interrupted him. 

“May I drink my tea in this gcod company?” 

It was Russell who spoke, and Ray’s laughing 
face changed suddenly as though a breath of icy 
wind had blown across it ; but Mrs. Dering looked 
up with a welcoming smile. “These are old friends 
of yours, so introductions are unnecessary.” 

“Yes — ” he drew up a chair before the sofa and 
sat down with his cup of tea, “I was just telling Mrs. 
Stafford that when I arrived in Madrid three days 
ago I called immediately at your hotel, but you had 
moved away without leaving an address.” 

“So we did!” cried Peter. “But you know our 
headquarters are the Royal Museum; you can find 
us there every day up to one o’clock — visitors are 


Her American Daughter 69 

always welcome,” and his blue eyes made bold appeal 
to Mrs. Dering, who smiled indulgently and prom- 
ised him an early call. 

All this while, Ray had remained silent ; she was 
striving to realize that the pleasant sunburned coun- 
tenance of the man before her, which memory had 
often reproduced against a background of blue, Tan- 
gerine sky, belonged to the author of that magazine 
article. The liking with which he had at first 
inspired her made his offense the more difficult to 
pardon. He was gravely watching her now, as he 
stirred his tea, and it became necessary for her to 
make some remark to bridge the awkward silence. 
A great longing had arisen in her to call him 
straightway to account, and it was with a distinct 
effort that she substituted some trite comments on 
the climate of Madrid. 

Russell looked surprised but responded in kind, 
and presently the conversation languished. 

On the other side of her, Peter, in the hands of the 
clever society woman, was being drawn out; Ray 
overheard snatches of the most naive confessions 
and minute descriptions of the senora’s menage. Her 
opposite neighbor began to manifest a desire to join 
Mrs. Dering in her cross examination, and this again 
forced the girl into speech — for she had no idea of 
allowing the conversation to become general while 
Peter was in this communicative mood. 

Resting her cup on her lap, she took a hasty survey 
of the room and began somewhat at random. “How 
impossible it would be to guess from this interior the 
nationality of our entertainers ! It is quite as much 


70 


Her American Daughter 


Spanish as American, and there is absolutely nothing 
to betray partisanship or individual preference.” 

“True,” said Russell, “but what else could you 
expect ? Diplomatic hospitality must be noncommit- 
tal, as it were. The less it has of individuality the 
less chance there is of offending foreign prejudice. 
And the envoy of a government that is even now 
debating a recognition of Cuban belligerency needs 
to be more than commonly discreet.” 

“But I think what struck me was just that — the 
necessity they are under of playing a part, of sub- 
ordinating their personal likes and dislikes to the 
national policy. How irksome it must be !” 

“No doubt,” agreed Russell, “but even if we are 
not in the diplomatic service, a certain amount of 
self repression is necessary; society demands it of 
us.” 

“I think I must have still some primeval instincts,” 
she quickly answered. “The world is wide, it ought 
to be big enough for me and the people with whom 
I have nothing in common. I want elbow room for 
my antipathies. Call me narrow minded and provin- 
cial, if you please,” she added meaningly, “but I 
would rather live alone on a desert island than come 
in contact with those who differ with me on every 
vital question and who assume a hostile attitude 
toward me and mine !” Then she paused, half fright- 
ened at her own temerity. 

Now it happened that Russell’s article had 
appeared just at the time he was contemplating his 
visit to Morocco, when he had ordered all heavier 
mail matter to be forwarded to Madrid. It was now 
reposing quietly in his room at the hotel amid a heap 


Her American Daughter 


71 


of other unopened magazines, and having been 
written and paid for over a year ago, it had quite 
faded from his memory. The problem which now 
occupied his thoughts was the girl before him. 

She was so thoroughly in earnest and as sure of 
her own standpoint as only the very young can be. 
Russell, having had about twelve more years’ experi- 
ence of life, believed that ere long she would come to 
see the wisdom of looking sometimes on the other 
side of things. But now, because she was a woman 
and as lovely as she was young, he smiled at her with 
a tender skepticism in his deep set eyes, and said : 

“A hostile attitude? Personally you need never 
fear that, I am sure.” 

Ray bit her lip; for the moment she was dis- 
armed, yet unappeased, — if anything, she was more 
antagonistic. She felt like a child trom whom a firm 
yet gentle hand had wrested away its weapon. 
Words failing her, she devoted herself to her cup of 
tea; and, in the pause that followed, Peter’s voice 
was distinctly audible. 

“You see,” he was saying, with a sly glance in the 
direction of his fellow student, “it’s etiquette over 
here to address young ladies by their Christian 
names as soon as you meet them, so both the Cabal- 
leros kept their ears open to hear what we called the 
senorita. She was christened Raven, you must 
know, — it’s a family surname, but she’s never called 
by it and she didn’t fancy having it translated. Well, 
one night at dinner Don Francisco turned to me and 
remarked that as Rey was a masculine title in Span- 
ish it would be more correct to call her Reina or 
Princesa. You’d suppose Miss Ray would have been 


72 Her American Daughter 

satisfied with that — but no, indeed ! She spelt out her 
name for them and explained that it was the same as 
their word rayo. Whereupon Don Antonio declared 
that was better still — Rayo de Luz or Rayo de Sol, 
both were appropriate. So now she is either the 
Queen of their hearts or the Light and Sunshine! 
For she answers to all the names in turn.” 

“Of course it’s absurd,” exclaimed Miss Wood- 
ward, blushing warmly, for Russell had joined in the 
laugh against her, “but I don’t feel any more ridicu- 
lous than Peter ought to do. He has been translated 
into a Don Pedro !” 

Mrs. Dering’s eyebrows were mischievously 
raised. “Is that so inappropriate ?” she asked. 
“Really, though, you have made me regret that I am 
already a translation — Isabel, you know, is the Span- 
ish form of Elizabeth. But I can never realize the 
identity of the two, — can you, Mr Russell ?” 

“Not in the least,” he answered absently, for one 
word of Peter’s story had carried him back to the 
Cafe Fornos and the scene of the night before ; again 
he saw the dim lights, the hovering smoke, the trio 
of young men at the little marble table, and again he 
heard the mocking toast to “Francisco’s latest — La 
Reina Americana !” 

At a signal from Mrs. Stafford, Ray had risen; 
now, as she turned to Russell with a grave farewell, 
their eyes met for another misleading moment. What 
she perceived in his face was a new intelligence ; and, 
interpreting that as a sudden comprehension of her 
attempted thrust, with swift compunction she 
drooped before him — it was so foreign to her gentle 
nature to say anything unkind. But he, manlike, read 


Her American Daughter 


73 


another meaning in the downcast eyes. Was she one 
of those women to whom admiration is as the breath 
of life? He recalled her evident enjoyment of 
.Thornton’s attentions, and pictured vividly her 
encouragement of the young Spanish officer. “Fran- 
cisco’s latest ! Bah !” and dropping her hand impa- 
tiently he turned away with his old indifferent air. 


CHAPTER VII 


“On a morning like this,” thought Ray, as she 
leaned over her balcony, “who couldn’t be happy?” 

It was one of those crisp, clear days when the rare- 
fied atmosphere of that high altitude glitters as 
though filled with the dust of powdered diamonds. 
The sky was of the soft and vivid blue that hangs 
low, like a velvet canopy draped above the city’s 
roofs. Warm golden sunlight blazed upon all the 
upper balconies on the northern side of the Calle 
Mayor, but as Ray looked downward the windows 
below her were in as cold a shadow as the tall build- 
ings across the street. 

“It is good to be so high up,” she thought. “We 
might be more stylish on a lower story, but we’d 
miss this morning illumination. There are always 
compensations,” and she shut her eyes for a moment 
that she might feel the hot sunbeams beating on her 
closed lids. From the leaves of the senora’s geran- 
iums, the drying night dews came to her in a warm 
and spicy breath. 

Suddenly there was a gay rat-tat upon her door. 
“Are you ready, Miss Ray? Shall I wait?” 

“No, thank you, Peter. I have to enter a fresh 
canvas, and the secretary never comes before ten 
o’clock; so I’m going to write a letter before I go 
out.” 


Her American Daughter 75 

“Good excuse/’ he shouted back, “but it cuts no 
ice with me. Streets full of Caballeros — young- lady 
without a chaperon — pretty speeches on the way !” 

“Once upon a time,” called Ray, “a Pot remarked 
to a Kettle: ‘I should think, madam, you were too 
fond of the Kitchen Stove.’ Said the Kettle to the 
Pot : ‘Your complexion, sir, leads me to suspect that 
you have been there yourself!’ — Pm glad your 
blushes are not sooty, Peter.” 

“Blushes ! I don’t know what you are driving at.” 

“Don’t you ? Well, listen ! 

‘I’ll buy from you a paper of pins, 

For that’s the way that love begins — ’ ” 

The hall door closed with a noisy bang, and the 
girl on the balcony threw back her head and laughed. 
“Teasing Peter is like drinking champagne. That 
boy will never grow up — in spite of his six-feet- 
two.” Then, with swift-coming seriousness: “I 
wonder if / seem over young for my age? When I 
think of Louise, with her two years of wifehood, 
and soon, perhaps — ” she paused, with eyes grown 
wistful. “Oh, well, it’s folly to be shaking the hour- 
glass, for the sands are running all the time.” With 
that she took up her writing tablet and sat down by 
the open window. 

To the twin sister across the water were fre- 
quently despatched long, intimate letters which Ray 
loved to write. Nothing was hidden from Louise 
but the occasional moments of homesickness with 
which the young exile had to contend. All the 
brighter phases of her life and work were gaily re- 


76 


Her American Daughter 


ported, every new acquaintance was faithfully por- 
trayed; even the little black-eyed street vender of 
whom Peter bought his daily paper of pins, and the 
wrinkled old woman on the corner who sold bunches 
of wild blue violets for a “perra-grande” apiece, had 
figured in Ray’s letters home. And this morning, in 
a few characteristic lines, she disposed of Mrs. Der- 
ing. 

“She’s pretty and wealthy and widowed,” wrote 
the fluent pen, “but evidently not broken-hearted, 
or she wouldn’t be spending all her days of mourn- 
ing in extended European tours. Her face is a 
blond reflection of her brother (who, it seems, was 
vastly entertained by my idiosyncrasies) and there 
is about her an air of potential patronage that I 
don’t like. She says — in a voice that suggests the 
little princess who yearned to make mud pies — that 
artists are always charming company ; so I fancy we 
shall see more of her. But although she is hardly 
four years my senior, I don’t think we shall drift 
into friendship. Mine, you know, is a constant soul ; 
but she impresses me as a person who would demand 
the moon today and tomorrow be wearied of green 
cheese. And besides, her intimacy with Mr. Russell 
would make me reluctant to seek her companionship. 
You have had time, by now, to read that article of 
his, and I know it must have affected you just as it 
did me. Did I ever describe him? To give an 
honest, unprejudiced portrait would have been much 
easier at first, but I will paint him as fairly as I can. 
He is tall, quite tall, with a strong, well-knit frame 
and the free bearing of a man who has done a great 


Her American Daughter 


77 


deal of his thinking out of doors. The student is 
betrayed only by his eyes and brow, — the latter 
being prominent and high, and seeming very white 
and transparent above the healthy tan laid on his 
cheeks and temples by the African sun. There is a 
look of conscious power in his clean shaven face — 
which is rather fine than handsome. And although 
his lower lip is slightly sensitive, the lines of the 
mouth and the curve of the jaw are firm. He is 
calm and self-restrained but very determined, and 
strikes me as a man who is accustomed to seeing 
obstacles melt before him. I imagine that he would 
pursue at all hazards the course he had laid out; 
that he would walk up to the mouth of a cannon — if 
it happened to be in his path — and inquire, as he 
tapped it lightly with his finger : ‘Who is the owner 
of this piece of artillery? I must trouble you to 
remove it ; you are obstructing the public highway.' 
Another theory of mine in regard to him is that he 
has seen both the best and the worst of our sex. I 
fancy that his mother was a very good woman, and 
for her sake he reverences womanhood ; but he is dis- 
posed to be rather critical of the vagrant females 
who cross his path. This one is decidedly ashamed 
of herself for being so outspoken last night ! I am 
afraid, Louise, that I will never learn to think first 
and speak afterwards. As the Scriptures say, my 
tongue is a little member but a most unruly evil !” 

Here the writer paused, her small mouth twisted 
in a penitent smile. Several minutes passed, during 
which a variety of expressions flitted across her 
face. With her hands clasped behind her head, she 


78 


Her American Daughter 


sat lost in a long revery until roused, at last, by a 
noise of hurrying feet in the street outside. The 
sounds increased and eventually drew her out again 
on the balcony. 

By this time the sun had climbed so much higher 
that the two lower tiers of windows were illumined, 
but none of its bright beams had reached the street 
below. There, the sidewalks were crowded with a 
throng of men and women and little children, all 
streaming toward the open Puerta del Sol. Ray 
wondered if a fire had occurred, and leaned out with 
anxious eyes. 

All at once, some unseen obstacle checked the 
human tide; it overflowed from the pavements into 
the narrow street, eddied there uncertainly, and then 
divided into two great waves that rose again upon 
the sidewalks and remained motionless — a wall 
upon the right hand and upon the left. As the foot- 
steps ceased, other sounds were audible, — a muffled 
drum beat, the shrill tones of a distant fife and the 
tramp, tramp, tramp of soldiers’ feet. Ray won- 
dered what it meant ; she had often heard the strains 
of a brass band under her window — when the guard 
at the Royal Palace was relieved, but this was some- 
thing different. Every window on the Calle Mayor 
was now crowded with spectators. In the balcony 
of the adjoining room appeared Benita and the old 
woman who came each morning to assist in the 
housework. To them Ray turned for information. 

“What does it mean?” she asked. 

Benita’ s blooming face had never looked so grave. 
“The soldiers, senorita.” 


Her American Daughter 


79 


“I know, — but what soldiers ?” 

A hand was laid upon her shoulder; Dolores had 
joined her on the balcony and was looking down- 
ward with eyes bright and tearless. 

“Look !” she whispered. 

Out from the Puerta del Sol. between the ever- 
thickening walls of human beings, wound a thin 
stream of blue uniforms — every man with his white 
knapsack slung across his shoulder. On they came, 
marching four abreast ; but as they passed along the 
street, their ranks were broken by the tide of men 
and women that flowed into them, mingled, and 
surged onward in a solid mass of humanity. The 
music of the band could still be heard, but the tramp, 
tramp, tramp of the well trained feet was drowned by 
the pattering, stumbling footsteps of the throng. 

“You ask what it means ?” said Dolores, with a 
quaver in her voice. “I will tell you, senorita. It 
means misery and desolation; it means broken 
hearts and starving families; it means mothers 
weeping for their sons, and little ones crying for 
their fathers, and sweethearts and wives left deso- 
late. They are going to the war, senorita, — these are 
only one thousand out of twenty thousand who have 
been conscripted and are to go this month to Cuba — 
to die of fever, or under the guns of the insurgents. 
See them, senorita, — they are mere boys, most of 
them ! Some had never handled a gun till a few 
months ago. But if they are drawn, they have no 
choice ; for very few can pay the money for a substi- 
tute.” 


80 Her American Daughter 

The tears were running down Ray’s cheeks; she 
pressed her hands together in a very passion of sym- 
pathy. This was war ! This was what her own peo- 
ple had suffered just a few brief years before! So 
her grandmother had watched her eldest boy depart ; 
so her mother had seen her only brother march 
away ! As she looked at the women and children in 
the crowd below, the tears came faster and fell in 
bright drops amid the sweet geranium leaves. At 
the sight of one girlish figure in a gay colored shawl, 
walking arm in arm with a blue uniform, a quick sob 
broke from her lips. “Oh, senora!” she cried, 
“senora!” and clasped the older woman’s hand in 
hers. 

“Pobrecitos !” murmured Dolores, “pobrecitos !” 

The band had passed on ahead and the procession 
moved by in silence, except for the hum of many 
voices that swelled now and then into a feeble cheer. 

“Viva Espana!” 

The senora drew a long, deep breath ; her fine, 
expressive face was pale and drawn; she laid one 
toilworn hand upon her bosom and slowly whisp- 
ered : “Mother of God, I thank thee — that I have no 
son !” 

Like the passing of a storm, all the great collec- 
tive tragedies of this world — in which thousands of 
hearts are wrung together in the same anguish- 
laden moment — seem to convulse the very atmos- 
phere. And now, while the sighs of a thousand 
mothers rose quivering through the ether, and the 
wind as it went by became vocal with farewells, 
— who could stand unshaken? who could listen 


Her American Daughter 


81 


unmoved ? It was a time in which the human heart 
was laid utterly bare; for in the fraternity of sor- 
row there are no secrets. 

The old Spanishwoman sank down in a chair 
beside the window, and Ray knelt on the floor at her 
feet. The pathetic sight they had just witnessed had 
unfitted the girl for work; and besides, it would be 
quite late before the street below was emptied of the 
crowd. So she abandoned all thought of painting in 
the gallery that morning, and gave herself up wholly 
to the happiness of comforting and being comforted. 
To Dolores it was happiness also; her sore heart had 
been soothed by the tears of this young stranger, 
shed in sympathy for Spain, and now Ray’s clinging 
arms, quivering lips and wet gray eyes all eloquent 
of pity, touched her to the core. She looked 
hungrily at the girl’s flushed face, so pretty in spite 
of the disfiguring tear-stains, so rounded and so 
young, and leaning forward she smoothed the bright 
tumbled hair with a gentle touch. 

“Senorita,” she said, “if one who had the power 
came to me and bade me cut off my right hand if I 
desired a daughter such as you, I would straightway 
hold it forth and cry, Cortalo!” and putting back the 
sleeve from her firm brown wrist, she offered it as if 
for sacrifice. 

There was something dramatic in the low, even 
tones of the rich voice, in the tragic earnestness of 
the wistful black eyes, and impulsive Ray thrilled 
in response to it ; for to the artist in her, as well as 
to the woman, it appealed. She seized the extended 
hand in both of hers and laid her lips against the 


82 Her American Daughter 

smooth bare arm. “Then take me for your daugh- 
ter, senora, your little American daughter — if you 
will !” 

It was graciously and tenderly done, and the 
warm southern heart of the young foreigner over- 
flowed, for the moment, with liking and admiration 
for this beautiful old Dolores, this simple and untu- 
tored woman of the people, who had withal so fine a 
dignity. But, gracious and tender as the words were 
meant to be, the childless woman winced beneath 
them. 

“I thank you, senorita; but there is one word I 
can never hope to hear, in this world or the next !” 

Then Ray understood. Still kneeling on the floor 
in the narrow patch of sunlight that yet remained 
before the open window, she held out both hands 
and whispered : 

“Madre!” 

A silence answered her, — silence, because Dolores 
had no voice for speech. At the sight of her face, 
with all its fine reserve broken by lines of suffering, 
Ray drew back conscience-stricken; she had not 
thought to give pain. But suddenly the black, rigid 
figure swooped downward and caught the girl in 
two strong arms, lifting her bodily from the floor. 
She was held close, so close that she could scarcely 
breathe, and kisses almost fierce in their passionate 
tenderness were pressed on lins and cheeks and hair. 

“Hija mia!” murmured Dolores, rocking herself 
to and fro with her warm and unresisting burden. 
“My child — my little ray of sun !” 


Her American Daughter 


83 


Then, for a moment, they were both absolutely 
still, — so still that Ray, with her cheek against the 
other’s shoulder, could hear the quick beating of the 
strong old heart. Her own had suddenly grown 
calm and regular. As it often happens with those 
who act on momentary impulses, she was subject to 
quick revulsions of feeling, in which she questioned 
the sincerity of the preceding mood. Now, even as 
she yielded to the other’s caresses, she was saying 
to herself, over and over : “Why did I do it ! why did 
I do it!” She realized that she had stirred an 
emotion deeper than her own, and was vaguely 
troubled. It had been easy enough, with her sudden 
intuition of the heart hunger from which the senora 
suffered, to imagine herself — for one flashing instant 
— the long desired daughter of Dolores, and a wave 
of tenderness had gone out toward the silver-haired 
woman sitting there with empty arms : but the reac- 
tion had come as quickly; lying in those arms she 
questioned her own right to be there, and it seemed 
to her almost cruel. 


CHAPTER VIII 


It was one o’clock, the hour of almuerzo, as the 
Spaniards call the first substantial meal of the day. 
Punctual to the minute was Peter, who possessed 
that best of all timekeepers — a healthy appetite. 

“Played hookey, didn’t you?” he commented 
cheerfully, as Ray joined him at the table. “Been 
spooning with Dolores, Benita tells me. Never knew 
such a girl as you ! — now-a-days if you are not flirt- 
ing with the men you are making love to the women. 
I’m not so gone on the Spaniards as all that. Just 
give me a pretty girl from New York and I’ll not 
care another fig for all your mantillas and black eyes. 
— By the way, we met Mrs, Dering at the gallery, 
and she’s just the swellest thing in Madrid !” 

“So she kept her promise.” 

“Yes, and she’s coming soon to call on you and 
Mrs, Stafford.” 

“It is evidently her whim to be interested in us, — 
I suppose you told her what we expected to have for 
lunch ?” 

“Didn’t know myself,” replied Peter, on whom 
anything like sarcasm was thrown away, “but I hope 
it’s something good, because Stafford’s bringing Mr. 
Russell home with him.” At this announcement, 
the countenance of his neighbor fell, but unobserv- 


Her American Daughter 85 

antly he rattled on : “Benita, que tenemos por almu- 
erzo ? — I’m learning those Dialogues by heart, Miss 
Ray.” 

The maid, all smiles and dimples, began to recount 
the menu for his benefit, telling the dishes one by 
one on her outspread fingers. 

“Sopa de garbanzos.” 

“That’s pease soup,” translated Peter. 

“Tortilla de huevos.” 

“Omelet in a pie dish, seasoned with unexpected 
vegetables.” 

“Chuletas, legumbres, ensalada, pan, vino y 
frutas.” 

“Chops, salad — Not so fast, preciosissima ! Say it 
again and say it slowly.” But Benita had departed, 
blushing all over her dimples. 

“Peter, you are learning too much Spanish for 
your good,” declared Ray, with a laugh that was 
only half hearted. She was wondering if their har- 
monious circle was to be often invaded by a jarring 
element. If Mr. Stafford, who was painfully shy 
and unsocial by nature, had gone out of his way to 
offer hospitality, it indicated, on his part, an unusual 
degree of liking for the author; so she, herself, 
instead of having “elbow room for her antipathies,” 
would be obliged to bury the hatchet for the sake of 
courtesy. . . . But must she? Would it be 

incumbent on her to put, metaphorically, the calumet 
to her lips ? She so hated anything like hypocrisy. 

The table gradually filled, but for once the cus- 
tomary flow of cheerful talk was lacking. Dolores 
came in, as usual, and took a chair in one corner of 
the room where she could direct the alert little wait- 


86 


Her American Daughter 


ing maid and forestall the wishes of her guests. This 
was her invariable custom, — she never sat down at 
her own board. Mrs. Stafford presided at the head, 
Don Antonio occupied the foot and Ray's seat was 
opposite Mr. Stafford and the young Spanish officer, 
with Peter on her left hand. Today a third chair had 
been placed on that side for the expected guest ; and, 
just as Benita was bringing in the soup, he arrived, 
in company with his host. 

In their bearing the two men were a striking con- 
trast. Mr. Stafford, although quite as tall as the 
other, was stoop-shouldered, and his step had lost all 
its youthful spring. He carried the word failure 
writ large upon his face, in which he did himself 
injustice; but it is hard for a man, even when he 
knows his work to be worthy, to hold up his head 
while all the world’s praise passes him by. A word 
of appreciation means much to these desponding 
souls, and it was just by the spontaneous tribute of 
an intelligent criticism that Russell had won his 
gratitude that morning. 

They had met in the street, the successful author 
and the discouraged artist. Russell had greeted him 
with evident pleasure, had then turned his steps in 
the same direction, and, in the course of a brief con- 
versation, had shown himself acquainted with the 
shibboleths of the other’s world and conversant with 
the names of many who had won recent triumphs. 
Finally, with kindly diplomacy, he had harked back 
to a picture of Stafford’s own that had won com- 
mendatory notice in New York the year before. It 
was done with the tact that comes only to a man of 
generous spirit who has made human nature his con- 


Her American Daughter 


87 


stant study ; but back of the motive, which Stafford 
recognized, lay the fact that the picture had really 
made a clear impress on the author’s memory. 

This thought lay warm at the heart of the painter 
all that morning. As he conversed quietly with his 
guest he seemed to expand more and more beneath 
the other’s appreciation; and Mrs. Stafford, whose 
instincts were never at fault where her husband was 
concerned, left the conversation chiefly in his hands, 
well content to see the furrows in his brow smooth 
themselves slowly and the lines of his face relax. 

But the trio at the head of the table had the talk 
all to themselves ; for, with the exception of Peter — 
whose whole mind was concentrated in the effort to 
catch Benita’s eye and make his peace — the others 
were absorbed in their own thoughts. 

The two Spaniards were both visibly depressed. 
Don Francisco had many friends among the officers 
who had gone with their troops that mornine by rail 
to Cadiz, whence they were to embark for Cuba ; and 
Don Antonio, who held an under clerkship in the 
War Department, had also much cause for anxious 
thought. So, even had Ray been in the mood to 
respond to their customary gallantries, they would 
not have been forthcoming. The girl, herself, was 
unusually silent, divining something of the diverse 
hopes and interests, anxieties and fears that had met 
that day at the senora’s table. Dolores, too, from 
her corner, said very little ; after exchanging a brief 
word with her two countrymen on the subject 
nearest their hearts, she had leaned back in her chair, 


88 


Her American Daughter 


sighing deeply, but keeping a tender watch over her 
adopted daughter, on whose plate the food was 
scarcely touched. 

Peter, however, was not one to hide his light long 
under a bushel ; having achieved his end in bringing 
Benita’s dimples into lively play, he was able to join 
in the discussion at the upper end of the table. One 
of his chief charms was the courage with which he 
proclaimed his convictions: where angels would 
have been abashed, he rushed in undaunted and car- 
ried the field with utter rout. Mr. Stafford seldom 
argued with him; in fact, the older man, realizing 
how time was slipping away from himself, held 
youth in highest reverence. Peter was already a 
promising student; best of all, he was young: all 
things might be possible to him. 

And now, as the boy carelessly summed up in his 
gay young voice all the questions under discussion, 
Mr. Russell was intensely amused. Pie attempted 
what Mrs. Dering had done the night before, and 
with like success; for Peter was only too ready to 
make the company a present of all his latest theories. 
Even Ray lent an ear when he took the floor. 

“These are the days of specialists/’ he was saying, 
“of specialists even in art. A man must take up one 
kind of thing and stick to it. He may spend his life 
in the manufacture of a particular type of female 
beauty — same pretty model every time, you know, 
dressed up new in the latest style; or he may take 
any old landscape and reproduce it a thousand times 
with assorted cloud effects; or he may paint one 
flock of sheep — sheep by daylight and sheep by 
night, sheep in the sun or sheep in the snow, sheep 


Her American Daughter 


89 


going to pasture or returning to the fold, sheep in 
any fashion he chooses to serve them up — provided 
it's always the same mutton. It makes no difference 
what he selects for his specialty, — anything in 
heaven or earth’ll do,— the essential thing in every 
case is repetition. If he only repeats himself, the 
average purchaser will exclaim, ‘Oh, there’s So-and- 
so’s latest, of course. How charming! .There’s no 
mistaking him !’- — and straightway he’ll buy it and 
hang it on his wall for the admiration of his equally 
discriminating friends. . . . That’s the only 

way to be successful.” His tones challenged a denial, 
but for obvious reasons both the Staffords were 
silent; Ray, however, leaned quickly forward. 

“My dear Peter,” she exclaimed, “your Yankee 
instincts are continually cropping out. You are not 
talking art now, you are talking trade.” 

“Eh?” said the boy, in some surprise; for there 
had been an unfamiliar note in her voice and, though 
she laughed, her eyes were serious. Mr. Russell 
likewise studied her with a puzzled smile which 
broadened mirthfully as he turned to Peter. 

“Well, Mr. Harding, what do you intend to make 
your specialty?” 

“Swell yachts and swell girls,” was the prompt 
reply, and his choice was pronounced eminently fit- 
ting. 

At this point, the two Spaniards withdrew ; each, 
as he rose from the table, bowing low, with a “Buen 
provecho!” to the company. Mrs. Stafford com- 
mented on their gravity, and Ray briefly explained 
the cause, describing the scene of the morning. 


90 Her American Daughter 

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Russell, “some of Weyler’s 
forces, I suppose. The arrival at Havana of the 
Alphonso XIII with the new governor general of 
Cuba was cabled only this morning. What a terrible 
tax on Spain must these continual reenforcements 
be ! Already, they say, she has in the field more than 
three times as many men as in the Ten Years’ War, 
and still the conscriptions go on. This young lieu- 
tenant, Don Francisco, is detailed here to drill 
recruits, — so I’ve been told,” and he glanced down 
the table at Miss Woodward, who had relapsed into 
her former gravity. In her manner throughout the 
meal he had surprised none of the coquetry which 
he had expected in “Francisco’s latest.” 

Mr. Stafford had been pondering. “I think,” he 
suggested, “we must be more careful, henceforth, 
never to bring up any political questions at this 
table. 

“But they don’t understand English, do they?” 
Russell asked. 

“They say not ; but we would necessarily use some 
names that were intelligible, and while their country 
is in such sore straits it would be very galling to 
them to sit at meat with strangers who appeared to 
discuss their troubles in a flippant or unsympathetic 
spirit.” 

“That’s so,” said Peter heartily, and Ray’s eyes 
glistened, while Russell — as he commended the art- 
ist’s thoughtfulness in a few simple words — felt 
more drawn toward him than he had been at any 
moment during their brief acquaintance. 

Soon after this, the party started out on their sepa- 
rate ways; Mr. Russell going to his hotel and the 


Her American Daughter 


91 


four artists to their own private studio, on the top 
story of a large building near the Royal Museum, 
where they usually worked from native models in 
the afternoon. 

The “pose” was nearly over. On the model throne 
was a picturesque figure in a long cloak of brown 
frieze, stained by the action of the sun and rain, 
along the shoulders and the outer edges of each fold, 
to mellow shades of olive green. The same weather- 
beaten tints were in the tattered felt hat that covered 
the gray hair, and the long beard that rippled over 
the ragged linen of the shirt was grizzled by many 
winters. Short breeches, faded to the general tone of 
the costume, were closed at the knee with a row of 
loops and buttons ; woolen stockings of a dingy blue 
covered the shrunken calves, and on the feet were 
well worn brogues tied with little bits of string. But 
there was an ineffable something in the draping of 
the cloak, in the tilt of the sombrero, in the occa- 
sional lighting of the dull black eyes that, for Ray, 
spelled caballero. The old man sat with his left hand 
resting jauntily upon his hip, while with the knotted 
fingers of his right he held his shabby cane across his 
knees. As Ray watched him from behind her easel, 
she found herself wondering at the ingrained pride 
of this people, reflected even in their language — 
which requires the use of the ceremonious third per- 
son in almost all forms of address, so that one must 
greet the very beggar on the street as “his honor” 
and add a senor or caballero to the close of every 
sentence. Plainly — she thought, with an odd rush 
of sympathy — this was more than empty form: it 


92 


Her American Daughter 


was rooted deep in the national characteristic; for 
even in a case like this, neither age nor poverty could 
utterly obliterate that air caballeroso which is the 
birthright of the Spaniard. 

As she mused thus, Mr. Stafford came behind her 
and studied her sketch with a critical eye. “That's 
not bad," he said, “but don’t go day dreaming just 
as you are about to add your most vital touches." 

Ray looked up with a laugh and a quick flush. 
“Thank you!" she returned, and added: “It’s my 
first study from this model." 

“Well, tomorrow’s ought to be better still." 

“I hope it may be no worse!" she sighed. “You 
know, for me 'black Monday’ comes in the middle of 
the week." 

Mr. Stafford reprovingly shook his head. “It’s a 
pity your enthusiasms are so short lived, for while 
they last they are productive of good results." 

“Oh, it isn’t that I lose interest!’’ cried Ray, and 
then broke off with a gesture of mute despondency. 

As the older artist turned away and began strap- 
ping up his color box, his wife immediately rose and 
deposited her small canvas with its face against the 
wall; then, as she and Ray cleaned their palettes 
into the paint bucket in the corner, she whispered 
softly : “I’ve been wanting a word with you, dear, 
ever since dinner." 

“With me?" and Ray stiffened slightly, for con- 
fidential whispers from Mrs. Stafford were usually 
the prelude to a reproof. 

“It’s about Peter. So often, lately, I’ve heard you 
call him a Yankee." 


Her American Daughter 93 

“Well, isn’t he a Yankee? Wasn’t he born in 
Rhode Island and didn’t he live there until his 
increasing size compelled them to export him? I’d 
like to know where in the world you could find a 
Y anker Yankee than Peter is !” 

“Very well,” said Mrs. Stafford, “I thought I 
would give you a friendly hint ; but of course, if you 
prefer to go on hurting the boy’s feelings — ” and 
she turned away with an air of renouncing all fur- 
ther responsibility. 

Ray scrubbed vigorously at her palette until she 
heard the door open and close, after which she 
crossed the room nonchalantly and glanced over 
Peter’s shoulder. 

“Say!” exclaimed that youth. “Stafford thinks 
this hand is out of drawing, and I do believe he’s 
right ! I’d like to correct it while the paint is fresh. — 
Won’t you bargain with the old fellow for fifteen 
minutes more ?” 

The old man had descended from the model throne 
and was stretching himself painfully, but when Ray 
spoke to him he lifted his battered sombrero with 
quite a courtly air. As Peter took a small silver 
piece from his pocket and made signs, which Ray 
translated, his dull eyes brightened perceptibly ; then, 
with a gesture of fine indifference, he remounted the 
platform and settled back into his former attitude. 

For the next few minutes Ray stood motionless at 
Peter’s elbow. Mrs. Stafford’s idea was absurd, 
but — 

“Peter,” she exclaimed suddenly, “have I been 
rubbing your feelings the wrong way ever since we 
came to Madrid?” 


94 Her American Daughter 

“Eh ?” said Peter, with a brush between his teeth. 

“Mrs. Stafford says so. ,, 

“What the ’nation — ” began Peter wonderingly, 
and then stopped dumbfounded, for the gray eyes 
were melting. 

“If it would be any satisfaction to you, Peter, you 
may call me a rebel — a darned Confederate rebel, if 
you like!” She threw back her head and laughed 
defiantly as she spoke, and Peter spent quite a half 
minute wondering what had become of the mist that 
had dimmed her eyes an instant earlier. Then he 
frowned and waved his palette impatiently. 

“Mrs. Stafford’s been talking rubbish! Don’t 
bother me with it !” 

“And you really don’t mind when I call you a 
Yankee ?” 

“Bosh!” grunted Peter politely. “Find me that 
tube of Tierra Sevilla , please.” 

“Because you know, Peter,” continued the girl, 
with a half laugh and a heightened color, as she bent 
over his paint box, “at lunch today you were only 
the — the scapegoat for other people, — a sort of 
vicarious sacrifice! So if I said anything disagree- 
able, you’d oblige me greatly by letting it go over 
your shoulder.” 

The boy’s face became luminous, he wheeled 
round in his chair and chuckled : “So that’s it, eh ?” 

“Yes, this is it,” replied Ray demurely, extending 
a very sticky tube in the tips of her fingers. “Horrid 
stuff ! I wonder at your using these Spanish colors,” 
and she walked away serenely. 

“Cheapest kind,” mumbled Peter, with another 
brush bisecting his countenance ; but his eyes were 


Her American Daughter 


95 


twinkling, and during the next ten minutes they con- 
tinued to twinkle intermittently — whenever he 
glanced over his shoulder at the farthest corner of 
the studio where Ray was stretching a fresh canvas. 
Her black calico painting-apron swathed her from 
the hem of her skirt to the tip of her pink chin, but 
its ugly lines failed to disguise the youthful grace of 
the little figure kneeling, hammer in hand, on the 
floor. Presently, Peter laid aside his brushes and 
crossed over to her side, whistling Yankee Doodle in 
a bird-like treble and executing a double shuffle as 
he passed the model throne, at which the old Span- 
iard laughed feebly. “That’ll do, old boy. Bastante, 
senor. Time’s up! Take your money and propel 
yourself homeward. — I say, Miss Ray, what’s the 
matter with Russell?” 

With hammer poised in air, the girl hesitated. “I 
declare, Peter,” she confessed at last, “it may seem a 
trivial thing to you ; but you have no idea how much 
it hurts me — for at first I really liked Mr. Russell, he 
seemed just like one of our own people. You 
know — ” she began to hammer vigorously, “besides 
writing books ... he contributes to the 
magazines, and . . . some time ago ... I 

happened to come across a very . . . dis- 
agreeable article of his . . . on South Caro- 
linians.” 

“Not really!” said Peter, by way of encourage- 
ment, as she stopped to push in a refractory tack 
with her thumb. 

“You couldn’t understand — no outsider could — 
how the tone of it, the cool, critical, superior, ungen- 


96 


Her American Daughter 


erous tone of it annoyed me.” She reached for a 
fresh tack and tipped over the wh ole box in her agi- 
tation. 

“What did he say ?” inquired Peter, looking down 
at her with his hands in his pockets. 

For a while Ray made no answer; her brows 
drew together and she shook her head dejectedly. 
“Half truths, Peter, — the hardest of all to rebut. To 
me the whole article seemed a superficial study of 
conditions without a fair inquiry into the causes 
underlying them. It was aimed at the conservative 
element in that particular section to which my people 
have belonged for generations — but the problem 
which faces our ‘low country’ involves too many 
questions for me to explain in detail. I’m afraid we 
are not very progressive; we have always had a 
greater talent for spending money than for making 
it, — chiefly because we value it not at all for itself. 
And the things by which we set most store are what 
no money can buy. — I can never forget a little story 
that papa used to tell us,” she paused a moment 
with clasped hands resting on her knees. “When he 
was a boy, he went one day to my grandfather with 
some childish purchase, saying : ‘See, father, what a 
bargain I made today !’ Grandfather turned to him 
gravely and laid a hand upon his head. ‘A bargain ! 
My son, never again let me hear that expression. To 
make a bargain means to obtain something at less 
than its value, — in other words, to defraud some- 
body else. I hope no child of mine will ever be 
guilty of such a thing!’ . . . That was the 

sort of training, Peter, that our young men used 
to receive. And now, the question is: When the 


Her American Daughter 97 

tide of so-called progress sweeps over us, what will 
it cost ? American enterprise is a very fine thing, — 
but when all South Carolina gets to 'hustling/ and 
joins the rest of the country in its mad race after 
wealth, how many of our old ideals will go by the 
board? The New South may make larger fortunes 
and build up finer cities and exhibit more material 
growth, but I don’t think it will ever produce any 
nobler type of manhood or of womanhood than the 
Old South had to show.” 

She took up her hammer again and resumed her 
work, while Peter watched her in thoughtful silence. 
Presently she added, with a flush of indignation: 
"But Mr. Russell thinks we make poor citizens.” 

Peter shook his head dubiously. "I guess you 
misunderstood him,” he declared. "Southerners 
have always had the reputation of being pretty high 
toned and square, and all that. The principal fault 
to be found with them is their confounded hot tem- 
per, you know. They are always flaring up and get- 
ting mad at nothing.” 

Just then Ray’s hammer slipped, and a wounded 
thumb closed the avenue of her retort. The last 
tack having been driven, she pushed aside the 
stretcher and rocked herself to and fro to ease the 
pain. 

"That’s a good job,” said Peter, in awkward sym- 
pathy; and with the toe of his boot he tapped the 
smoothly stretched canvas till it resounded. "Tight 
as a drum.” 

"And no thanks to you,” she returned crossly, 
still nursing the bruised member. 

"Eh?” cried Peter. 


98 


Her American Daughter 


“I said No thanks to you!” repeated Ray, with 
her brow still puckered. “And I know one thing: 
there’s not a man in all South Carolina who could 
stand up with his hands in his pockets and see a 
woman driving nails !” 

“Tacks,” corrected the literal Peter. “But really, 
you know, I didn’t think you wanted me to interfere. 
You refused once before when I offered to. You 
never do let a fellow help at that sort of thing, — now 
do you ?” 

“Of course I don’t,” said Ray, with a gay little 
laugh. “I’m proud of my independence. — But any- 
how, you might have offered again,” she added 
illogically. “Once in a while, even though one isn’t 
doing woman’s work, one likes other people to 
remember that one is a woman still !” 


CHAPTER IX 


Most men, up to the age of thirty five, regard love 
as a very possible influence in their lives ; but if they 
arrive at that period unscathed by the little blind god, 
they begin to consider marriage a rather doubtful 
expedient. Eliot Russell was thirty three — and, so 
far, the One Woman had not been found. It must 
be confessed that he had sought her rather in fear 
than in hope ; indeed, his had been rather a negative 
quest, and whenever he arrived anew at the decis- 
ion, “It is not She !” he breathed a sigh of relief. 

By his system of careful elimination, he had dis- 
proved the identity of any woman of his acquaint- 
ance with the ideal that dominated his imagination. 
That ideal was a composite of all the feminine qual- 
ities which he considered most admirable, and he 
had always believed that, were he to encounter it in 
the flesh, love would be a logical consequence. And 
now, as Miss Woodward — although she interested 
him greatly — was very far from embodying all those 
admirable and essential qualities, he concluded that 
it was solely from a professional standpoint that he 
regarded her : he was only studying her as a type, a 
somewhat new and original type of young girlhood, 
— for she would make such charming “copy,” 
decided the author. 


100 Her American Daughter 

But there were two things that Russell quite failed 
to consider, or he would not have been so positive 
in regard to the limit of her attraction for him. One 
was a certain quality of his own — a usual accom- 
paniment of strong and gentle manhood — the 
instinct of protectiveness ; this had been the under- 
lying motive for many of his actions, and therefore 
a potent factor in his life ; out of it, for instance, had 
grown his friendship with Hal Thornton — which 
began in his senoir year at college while the other 
was a plucky little “fresh” — for, invariably, whatever 
was smaller or weaker than himself had aroused his 
instant championship. The other thing which Rus- 
sell failed to consider was that unknown quantity 
which slips in — only Cupid knows how ! — and upsets 
the simplest calculations. 

On the morning after his lunch with Mr. Stafford, 
he mounted the wide granite steps of the Royal 
Museum of Paintings with a definite aim in view. He 
was no stranger to this low, spacious building of 
brick and stone, with its world-famous collection of 
pictures, its immense halls, corridors and rotundas 
where one’s footstep rang hollow and one’s whisper 
woke the echoes; he had spent several weeks in 
Madrid during the preceding October and much of 
the time had been passed here, not for art’s sake 
entirely — although he had a rare appreciation of it, 
— but for the pictured history, the enclopsedia of cos- 
tume to be seen and studied upon the walls. He 
was engaged, at present, upon a novel of the seven- 
teenth century, the scene of which was to be laid 
chiefly in Spain, and all his travels and studies dur- 


Her American Daughter 101 

mg the last four months had been for the purpose 
of gathering the necessary material. However, what 
had drawn him here this morning was only a strong 
desire to see the young art student at work in her 
natural environment. 

Compared with the galleries of Paris or London, 
this one seemed almost forsaken ; for, instead of the 
forest of easels obstructing the visitor’s passage and 
the swarm of students copying busily, only a few 
native artists and an occasional foreigner were to be 
seen, scattered here and there over the vast building 
or congregated in groups near some of the most pop- 
ular pictures. In each hall, a smiling but rather 
decrepit old guard (this was the asylum for many 
a worn-out soldier) presided over a brazier of hot 
ashes that but slightly modified the dungeon-like at- 
mosphere of the place. The visitors, also, were few in 
number — a small party of tourists, who studied the 
pictures attentively with the aid of a guidebook, and 
several idle young men of the town, who loitered 
about, inspecting the artists curiously and making 
whispered comments on their work. 

Russell wandered from room to room in quest of 
the little South Carolinian; and, at last, in one of 
the smaller, less frequented galleries, he discovered 
her. She was standing with both arms behind her 
back, her left hand clasping the slim wrist of her 
right, which loosely held a bit of soft charcoal that 
had smudged the crumpled pinkness of its out-turned 
palm. Her uncovered head with its coils of wavy, 
bronze-brown hair was tilted upward, her lips were 
parted slightly and her lifted eyes intent upon the 


102 


Her American Daughter 


wall where several of Ribera’s Apostles — powerfully 
painted, gaunt, dark and unlovely — were hung in a 
forbidding row. Upon an easel, near by, was her 
untouched canvas, and her hat and cloak rested on 
the back of a chair that held also her color-box and 
brushes. 

So accustomed had she grown to the coming and 
going of curious onlookers that Russell’s footsteps 
on the bare wooden floor approached quite near 
without disturbing her; she seemed as unaware of 
his presence as she was of the other two occupants 
of the room. These were the old blue-uniformed 
guard, nodding over his newspaper in the warm cor- 
ner by the brazier, and a young man wrapped in a 
rich broadcloth capa, bordered down its front edges 
with wide bands of crimson velvet, who sat — or 
rather lounged with careless grace, his silk hat dang- 
ling from his hands — on one of the green plush 
benches against the wall, just about ten feet from 
where Ray was standing. His eyes, which had been 
fixed upon the girl, were turned indifferently toward 
the newcomer — who at once recognized the young 
civilian whom he had seen in the cafe, Don Teodoro 
de Silvela. 

For a moment, the two men regarded each other 
coldly; then, as Russell went forward to the girl’s 
side, the Spaniard rose, donned his hat and loitered 
away, stopping now and then to look at a picture on 
the wall or to throw a backward glance over his 
shoulder. 

“Good morning, Miss Woodward !” 


Her American Daughter 103 

Ray turned suddenly. “Mr. Russell !” she 
exclaimed. 

“I hope I didn’t startle you,” he said, “but you 
were so lost in the contemplation of those emaciated 
saints that I knew I couldn’t rouse you without 
speaking.” 

She wondered what need there was of his doing 
either! And then — her innate gentleness making a 
rebuff impossible — she smiled. “Don’t call them 
saints ; to me they are simply types of human suffer- 
ing. In most of them is visible real physical pain, 
but I find in none the exalted spirit of the martyr. 
They are all beggars — not Apostles.” 

Russell regarded her attentively, then he took a 
hasty survey of the walls. “There is nothing pov- 
erty stricken about that St. Peter yonder,” he com- 
mented, “but I confess he is not my conception of 
the Galilean fisherman.” 

“He?” cried Ray, with a little shrug that was 
quite foreign in its expressiveness. “Oh, no! he’s 
only a fat old Jew with the keys of his treasure — I 
detest him ! But aren’t the hands fine? and the text- 
ure of that stiff brown robe? I ought to have selected 
him to copy.” 

“Why should you ?” asked Russell. “Is it a spe- 
cial penance you are preparing for yourself?” 

“Not exactly; but I’m after technique now, tech- 
nique and nothing else. Mr. Stafford advised me to 
choose a subject I disliked, and to treat it in a brutal 
manner,” she laughed softly. “You see, he knows 


104 Her American Daughter 

that I am afflicted with an excess of sentiment, and 
he thinks it would be advisable to starve it for a 
while on some of these dry bones.” 

“Which skeleton have you chosen ?” asked Rus- 
sell, smiling. 

She pointed it out and the author studied it in 
silence. While he did so, Ray studied him. Uncon- 
sciously, he had assumed something of her first pose, 
for he held his hat behind him in his clasped hands 
and his bared head was thrown backward; but the 
expression of the dark reposeful face was wholly dif- 
ferent. As Ray watched him, over her own face 
flitted a sudden frown. She closed her lips tight, 
and turning to her canvas, began with swift strokes 
of her charcoal to sketch in the outlines of her study. 

It was owing to Russell’s perfect unconsciousness 
of anything discordant in their relations that he did 
not withdraw immediately. Instead, he watched her 
work with interest, marveling at the steady poise of 
the slight wrist, the certainty of the slender fingers. 
Minute after minute went by, and Ray became 
utterly oblivious of his presence — unless the deepen- 
ing color in her cheek came from another source than 
simple enthusiasm in her task. 

“Pretty good,” said a voice behind her suddenly — 
a voice she knew so well that she never turned her 
head. “Bien hecho! as one of the guards said to 
your humble servant a moment ago. When you 
learn to handle your brush as you do your charcoal, 
you’ll begin to arrive, Miss Ray.” 

“Just wait, Peter, till I get out of this dungeon of 
dead men’s bones !” she retorted, with a laugh. 


Her American Daughter 


105 


“It seems to me,” remarked Russell, with whom 
Peter had already had some previous chat, “that Mr. 
Stafford prescribes a severer regimen for you two 
than he does for his wife.” (The lady in question 
was very busy, in another room, decorating a series 
of small canvases with an adaptation of the cherubs 
in one of Murillo’s large Conceptions.) 

No one answered. Peter thrust his hands a little 
deeper in his pockets and Ray’s charcoal moved more 
swiftly. At last the boy seemed to feel that a reply 
of some kind devolved upon him. “You see,” he 
began with an embarrassed laugh, “Mrs. Stafford 
isn’t studying technique, she — she’s painting for the 
market.” 

Russell had already surmised as much. He was a 
man of too wide a culture, too intimate an acquaint- 
ance with European picture galleries, not to recog- 
nize at a glance the difference between the serious 
student of art and the commercial picture-maker. 
But he felt some curiosity to know why a man like 
Mr. Stafford should permit his wife to spend her 
time at such puerilities. “Indeed?” he said, “I 
hardly thought she had chosen the best models for a 
beginner.” 

Ray put in with a smile: “As that bright little 
Frenchwoman in the next room would say, ‘Ce sont 
des betises !’ Did you notice her at all ?” she queried, 
with an effort to turn the conversation. Her motive, 
however, was lost upon Peter. 

“Murillo’s all right,” he sturdily maintained, “and 
his cherubim and seraphim hit the public in a soft 


106 Her American Daughter 

spot. — But it’s the niggling way Mrs. Stafford 
copies them/’ 

“Peter!” 

“I’m not saying anything people can’t see for 
themselves,” he cried, flushing a warm red. “You 
see,” he added, turning to Russell and speaking 
rapidly, “the trouble is that Stafford’s stuff don’t 
sell. He’s really rather fine, you know; but he 
hasn’t made himself the fashion. When he was in 
New York he had a small class, and that helped 
some — we studied with him afternoons, Miss Ray 
and I. But it’s Mrs. Stafford who supports the 
family. She’s an awfully nice woman, and plucky 
as the devil ; but she will turn out these gaudy little 
slicked-up pictures — nice and smooth, you know, 
the way lots of people like ’em ! — and it makes Staf- 
ford just perfectly sick.” 

Ray laid aside her charcoal. “Peter thinks she 
could do better work if she tried — more artistic 
work, you know ; but I disagree with him. And the 
circumstances are such that she — she ought to be 
exempted from criticism. Of course it’s a pity . 

She is under a sort of contract to paint for 
some dealer at the rate of three canvases a week — 
pot boilers,” and Ray lowered her voice regretfully. 
In the creed of the art student, to abandon one-self 
entirely to the manufacture of the pot boiler is to 
fall forever from grace ; for while the ultimate inten- 
tion of all painters may be to sell, there are many 
ways of selling. And young, hopeful, enthusiastic 


Her American Daughter 107 

beginners — like Peter, who dream of gold medals 
and a place on the walls of the Luxembourg, have 
usually but little indulgence for the wearied, dis- 
heartened workers who have accepted their limita- 
tions and abandoned ideals for bread and butter. 
Ray’s intuitions carried her somewhat farther 
beneath the surface. She regarded the two men with 
a slightly dubious expression and continued hesitat- 
ingly : “But after all, she isn’t sacrificing any higher 
standard when she paints these — chromos. She 
can’t help herself. The truth is, Mrs. Stafford sees 
everything that way; it’s — it’s her point of view.” 

“Y-es,” said Russell, slowly smiling, “perhaps so.” 
And indeed, Mrs. Stafford’s work seemed a very 
natural expression of the woman’s mind, — she was 
so crudely matter of fact, so platitudinous and yet 
so perpetually cheerful. “But Miss Woodward, I 
wonder if we quite realize the whole of her point of 
view!” He thoughtfully studied the face of the 
young girl as he spoke, wondering if she saw all the 
pathos of the other woman’s story. Was the cheery 
little breadwinner so lacking in perception that she 
failed to understand her husband’s attitude toward 
her work? He doubted it. And only a great love 
could give her the strength and courage for her 
task: in this world it is not always the wisest and 
most gifted who love best. Did this girl compre- 
hend? “Don’t think me a philistine,” he exclaimed, 
“if I say that Art is not everything — even if you 
spell it with a capital A.” 


108 Her American Daughter 

“Take care!” laughed Peter, sauntering off, “Miss 
Ray spells everything she believes in with a capital 
letter.” 

Ray flushed faintly and took up her charcoal 
again, but Russell followed her across to her easel. 

“Pm not exactly an unbeliever,” he declared half 
laughing, half in earnest. “Only it seems to me that 
those who use the capital A are too much inclined to 
set the worship of Art before everything else.” 

He paused, but she made no answer except to lift 
her eyes gravely to meet his. Behind her was the 
row of sombre saints — a background of gaunt faces 
sunk in bituminous gloom; her own small head 
appeared, in contrast, like a delicate painting by 
Greuze. Suddenly, Russell forgot Mrs. Stafford, 
forgot everything but the girl before him. “Miss 
Ray — ” it was the first time he had ever used the 
more familiar little name, “a man who has seen as 
much of the world as I have, and of life in foreign 
cities, comes across so many young lives sacrificed 
on the altar of this merciless deity. For Art’s sake 
they must endure so much, surrender so much ! And 
what does she usually give in return for all the pri- 
vations, the dangers — ” he broke off quickly, for the 
gray eyes were wide and weary. 

“Of course,” she said, “there’s a long procession 
of us, and she stands at the goal with a wreath of 
laurel in her hands. Perhaps one in every hundred 
of us gets a leaf, and the rest fall by the wayside ! 
But that’s life, you know.” 

“I wonder if you would spell that word with a 
capital letter.” 


Her American Daughter 


109 


“What word ?” she asked. 

“Life,” he answered. 

“N-no,” said Ray; then suddenly: “Yes, I believe 
I would — not only Life Temporal but Life Eternal !” 
The charcoal dropped from her fingers and rolled 
away over the floor. “Mr. Russell, I think I under- 
stand what you mean ; but I regard my life as a term 
of service, not to Art alone. If this is my talent and 
I can do anything with it, it is my duty to go on. 
But if I find myself physically unequal to the strain 
— for it is a strain, on every nerve and every muscle, 
as only those who have stood at an easel for six or 
seven or eight hours a day can understand — or if I 
find that I can never rise above the level of medioc- 
rity, I shall not spend the rest of my life in a hand 
to mouth existence in foreign cities, playing at bohe- 
mianism and spoiling good paint and canvas ; I shall 
go home and get something really useful to do — at 
least I could teach little children their A B C’s!” 
She paused a moment and caught her breath. “But 
I hope — I sincerely hope I have it in me to do some- 
thing worth while in my profession. I am young 
and strong and not afraid of work ; and as far as the 
— the dangers are concerned, I’m not afraid of those 
either. I don't know as much as you do of the art 
life in foreign cities — in New York, a girl student 
can be very safe and sheltered; but I have joined the 
great army of the unchaperoned” — a pathetic smile 
stole round her lips — “in the firm belief that, any- 
where and everywhere, the art student can — and 
very often does — lead as simple, healthy, pure and 
earnest a life as the workers in any other profession. 


110 Her American Daughter 

I don’t know that I — that any girl would be justified 
in trying the experiment so far from home without 
a certain fixed income to depend upon — it may be a 
microscopic one if only she knows how to keep 
within it; for the problem of how to exist must of 
course be solved before everything else. But with 
that eliminated, I can’t see much difference between 
life in one city and in another; the world is very 
much the same all over, and though there must be a 
certain percentage of evil, I believe that the good pre- 
ponderates everywhere, — don’t you?” 

“ A beautiful optimism,” was the evasive comment 
of the man beside her, as he stooped for the fallen 
charcoal and restored it to her hands; but when he 
parted from her, he took away with him a memory 
of the pure young face with that last look of happy 
confidence shining through its tender freshness. He 
was strangely stirred by it, and throughout the day 
it abode with him, while a few fragmentary, half- 
remembered lines rose continually to his lips: 

“She has a hidden strength, 

Which, if Heav’n gave it, may be term’d her own 

And, like a quiver’d nymph with arrows keen, 

May trace huge forests, and unharbour’d heaths, 

Be it not done in pride or in presumption.” 


CHAPTER X 


In the years of our adolescence, when we play the 
game of “make believe,” our elders laugh indul- 
gently at the quaint fabric of our infant imagina- 
tions ; but when children of a larger growth divert 
themselves in a similar manner, the world calls it 
self-delusion , and looks on with a smile of pity. And 
the reason is, that the earlier play is invested with a 
prophetic significance by the fond spectators. Let 
the child hitch his wagon to a star, they say, and who 
knows where he may arrive in the years to come! 
But when gray hairs “pretend,” it is a pathetic reve- 
lation of broken hopes and unfulfilled desires, and 
the truly pitiful go softly by lest they waken the 
dreamer prematurely to a realization of the barren 
present. But that awakening will come, nevertheless, 
and oh ! the bitterness of it. It is far better, no doubt, 
to walk one’s autumnal path with eyes opened wide 
to see every withering bloom, every falling leaf ; for 
thus, there can be no horrid shock when the first cold 
blast sweeps the desolate horizon. 

Dolores sat in her favorite chair in the rear hall, 
behind the yellow portieres, waiting for her adopted 
daughter to come home. This hall, or passage-way, 
was about ten feet in width ; it began at the door of 
Ray’s chamber and ran, at right angles with the 
dining room, along one side of the inner court — on 


112 Her American Daughter 

which two cheerful windows opened ; then, turning 
suddenly, it narrowed to about three feet and stopped 
abruptly at the kitchen door. The floor was of white 
tiles — like nine-tenths of the floors in Madrid — and 
along its entire length was laid a strip of dark brown 
drugget. Against the wall, on one side, were neat 
shelves that held the senora’s china and glass, and 
beneath them on a low table rested two quaint 
earthen water jars — indispensable articles in every 
Spanish household. Beyond the shelves stood an 
old black walnut chest of drawers, in which Dolores 
stored away many of her most precious possessions, 
and a large wicker cage filled with her feathered pets 
hung in each of the two small windows. Before one 
of these stood always the senora’s mending basket 
and her favorite arm chair in what might be called a 
strategic position, commanding all the windows on 
the inner court — those of the kitchen on the left and 
the dining room on the right, while directly opposite 
through the one window of the front hall could be 
dimly seen the barred and grated door that gave 
admission to the little flat. 

The senora’s attention, this afternoon, was divided 
between that outer door and the work in her mend- 
ing basket. Beside her, on a chair, was a pile of 
fresh and dainty linen which, having already passed 
under her careful scrutiny, had every button in place, 
every frill pinched and fluted by loving fingers. Her 
left hand, now, was thrust into the foot of a small 
black stocking, and her busy needle wove a net of 
marvelously fine stitches over an almost invisible 
hole. This done, it was folded neatly and added to 
the heap at her side; then, with a sigh of content, she 


Her American Daughter 113 

waited for the tinkle of the doorbell in the hall. 

It came at last, and Dolores leaned forward 
breathlessly to hear a fresh young voice exclaim : 

“Buenas tardes, Benita. Donde esta mi madre?” 

“Oiga a la senorita! Donde esta mi madre?” 
mimicked the maid in mirthful derision; then light 
footsteps tripped through the dining room, the yel- 
low portieres were quickly pushed aside and Benita’s 
plump red finger pointed to the expectant figure in 
the big armchair. 

“There is your mother, senorita — see ?” 

“Hija mia!” cried Dolores, with a ring of tender 
gladness in her tones, and Ray was gathered in a 
jubilant embrace. 

This little scene was enacted nearly every after- 
noon, and to Ray it was only a pretty comedy that 
both amused and touched her. She knew Dolores 
liked it, and it pleased her to give pleasure. In fact, 
her whole nature overflowed with warm good will 
and graciousness to all the world; she resembled 
Ferrara’s gentle Duchess in that 

“she liked whate’er 

She looked on, and her looks went everwhere.” 

And, on the whole, the world had smiled back at her 
in much the same kindly spirit; for happy-hearted 
youth — like the first sweet airs of spring — is almost 
irresistible. But beneath all her impulsiveness were 
depths that had never been sounded, depths of which 
the girl herself was dimly cognizant and rather 
fearful. 

This afternoon Dolores had news to communicate. 
First, she informed Ray that an American senora 


114 Her American Daughter 

had called an hour earlier — a senora of great wealth 
who remained in her carriage outside while the cour- 
ier mounted the long stairway with her card. 

“Mrs. Dering,” said Ray with a smile, as she 
threw aside the bit of pasteboard. “Peter shall have 
the pleasure of returning that call with us ! It’s an ill 
wind that makes nobody glad. — Bien esta, madre, — 
what else have you to tell me?” 

“The friend of Senor Staffore, who took almuerzo 
with us on Tuesday, has engaged board here; he 
arrives with his boxes tomorrow. I shall give him 
the room next to yours, hija mia; and he will send 
up a large writing table of his own — full of little 
holes for papers which Benita is never to dust ! He 
is a maker of books, this caballero, and all the morn- 
ings he will work quietly and comfortably when no 
one is in the house. It will be very convenient for 
him . . . and the Blessed Mother knows well 

that those children of Pablo’s have healthy appe- 
tites 1” 

Ray turned away without speaking and pushed 
open her own door. The senora followed her and 
studied the girl’s face while she threw off her hat and 
cloak. Something in its unwonted gravity arrested 
the fluent stream of talk. 

“Does it displease you, my life, — the coming of 
this Senor Rosail? If so, he shall be sent about his 
business, flying!” and she clapped her hands with a 
gesture that would have struck Michito’s soul with 
terror. 

The gray eyes were lifted frankly. “I’m 
not glad, senora; but the reason seems entirely too 
trivial to explain. He is my countryman and — muy 


Her American Daughter 115 

caballeroso ! You are fortunate in securing another 
inmate,” and she nodded reassuringly. She had 
heard all about Pablo's misfortune and the senora’s 
need of money, and felt that it would be selfish to 
interpose objections now. 

Already, however, the dormant mother-wisdom in 
Dolores was aroused; she came closer and laid a 
gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Hija, if there is 
any reason why this caballero should not come, tell 
your mother. Is he perchance, a lover of my daugh- 
ter? — a lover whose suit is unwelcome and whose 
advances you wish to check ?” 

With a quick blush and a gesture of indignant 
protest, Ray exclaimed : “My dear senora ! Ameri- 
can girls don’t regard every man of their acquaint- 
ance as a possible suitor, and American gentlemen 
don’t persecute young ladies with unwelcome atten- 
tions. Mr. Russell has no more idea of making love 
to me than — than Don Francisco has!” 

A dubious smile flitted round the senora’s lips; 
she took the girl’s face between her hands and tilted 
it upward. “So ?” she said, “that would be not at all, 
truly ! as Francisco is already betrothed to his cousin 
Marica — and he is a constant youth, Francisco! But 
this Senor Rosail, I like his looks ; he is a fine gentle- 
man, ‘hombre de buena capa’ — as we say in Spain. 
And his manner pleases me also; it is gentle and 
considerate, yet without patronage. Only those who 
are born noble possess a graciousness that is free 
from condescension ; he must be hidalgo in his own 
country, is it not so?” 

Ray shrugged her shoulders with a merry laugh, 
and pushing Dolores into a chair delivered a lecture 


116 Her American Daughter 

on the subtle caste distinctions that exist in a country 
where all men are supposed to be born free and equal. 
The senora listened with intelligent interest, put sev- 
eral pertinent questions and privately arrived at the 
conclusion that, whether or no Russell was a grandee 
of the first water, the young art student — by virtue 
of her descent from various Excellencies — was 
hidalga to the backbone; and, had it not been for 
some devastating war that emptied the ancestral cof- 
fers, she would have inherited a noble fortune and 
been lapped in luxury all her days ! 

“Oh! la guerra, la guerra!” sighed Dolores, “I 
know what a terrible thing it is — how it blights a 
whole country, how it strikes down young men in 
the prime of their youth or sends them home broken 
in health, without strength or courage to take up 
life’s labors. Yes, war is a terrible, terrible thing! 
Have I not seen it also? Oh, Espana mia! Espana 
mia !” She sighed heavily and hopelessly, and Ray, 
who was curled up on the floor in her favorite atti- 
tude, slipped a sympathetic hand between the work 
roughened fingers. A silence crept over them, and 
the spell of the winter twilight kept them hushed. 
Soon, the room was all in darkness except for the 
ghostly glimmer of the large French window on the 
balcony. Outside, in the street below, a strolling 
musician was thrumming a sweet toned guitar, and 
above the plaintive melody rose at intervals the shrill 
voice of a little news girl crying the evening papers : 
“El Liberal y El Pais ! ... El Liberal y El 

Pa-i-s r 


Her American Daughter 


117 


“Come,” cried Dolores suddenly, “sad thoughts 
are ill company. Let us shut out the darkness and 
call for lights. I hear Don Francisco’s voice in the 
passage — Benita will be laughing and joking with 
him and letting the dinner spoil !” 

Ray caught her arm as she would have risen. “Not 
yet, senora. He has gone out again — I heard the hall 
door close. Poor Don Francisco ! you are always 
scolding him.” 

“It does him no harm,” said the older woman 
calmly. “He is a good youth, but he talks too much. 
Marriage will teach him to hold his tongue !” 

“You say he is betrothed to his cousin?” 

“Si, senorita,” replied Dolores, who thought the 
best way to avoid complications was to have the 
ineligibility of the sentimental lieutenant understood 
at once. “It will be a good match for them both,” 
— and she explained at some length that the young 
man’s grandfather had owned a fine olive planta- 
tion on the banks of the Guadalquiver, and his two 
daughters dying before him, he had left it in trust 
to his sons-in-law, the fathers of Marica and Fran- 
cisco. They had worked in partnership ever since 
and made money; but now Marica was coming of 
age, and in case of her marriage with anyone else 
the property would have to be sold and the money 
divided. The pay of a lieutenant amounted to very 
little, and Francisco would be doing a wise thing if 
he married his cousin and kept the land together. 

“Hm!” said Ray, thinking of another twilight 
tale — about two young people who had begun life 


118 


Her American Daughter 


with nothing' but their love to bank upon. “You 
were not so worldly wise, senora.” 

“Ah!” cried the faithful widow, “but there are 
not many men like my Jose !” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then Ray sat 
up with a laugh and said : “Madre, when you were 
a girl did you ever have the caballeros on the street 
to make remarks as you passed by ?” 

“Many a time,” said Dolores calmly. 

“And did you ever have one to pluck the flower 
from his buttonhole and drop it at your feet?” 

“I have had that too,” declared the old Spanish- 
woman. “But why does my daughter ask ?” 

“Oh! because. And what did you do, senora? 
Did you try not to see and hear, or did you ever 
forget and smile — just because it took you by sur- 
prise and you hadn’t time to think of what was 
proper ?” 

Dolores laughed softly and caught the girl in her 
arms. “What I did, hija mia, was not always the 
wisest thing. It is quite natural that the young cab- 
alleros should make their compliments to you,” she 
added with maternal pride, “but of course it is best 
for you not to notice or to hear. You should cast 
down your eyes and walk along as though you were 
going to mass and did not know there was a Cabal- 
lero within sight. But what have they said to you, 
light of my eyes?” 

“At first,” confessed the girl, “I didn’t, dream 
they were speaking to me when I heard remarks in 
the gallery and on the street; but lately they have 
been unmistakable. I am usually very discreet, 


Her American Daughter 119 

senora, but this afternoon I happened to come home 
all alone, and as I passed through the Puerta del Sol 
— you know there are always numbers of young 
men standing on the corner — well, as I passed, there 
was quite a group of them, and I couldn’t help 
thinking how picturesque they were in their soft felt 
sombreros with the graceful capas draping their 
shoulders. Among them I noticed Don Francisco’s 
uniform, and when I approached he recognized me. 
His cap came off instantly, and he bowed — a most 
beautiful bow in the fashion of at least a hundred 
years ago! At the same moment all the sombreros 
came off, too, and the capas undraped themselves as 
their owners made obeisance. Of course that was 
only proper ; in America I would have expected the 
same courtesy in only a less pronounced degree. But 
I didn't expect a chorus of ejaculations; and when 
one very fine gentleman, whose cloak was of black 
broadcloth bordered with crimson velvet, dropped 
his boutonniere directly in my path, it — it was a 
little disconcerting. My conscience convicts me of 
a smile, senora — I couldn’t help it !” 

“Ya lo creo!” commented Dolores. “And what 
was it they said?” 

“He of the bouquet said nothing at all; but the 
others with one accord exclaimed : ‘Ah-h ! la senor- 
ita simpatica!” Her demure mimicry broke sud- 
denly at the end in little grace notes of laughter. 

“Well,” said Dolores, “that was very refined. It 
wouldn’t have been in such good taste if they had 
said hermosa or bonita , but simpatica — that was very 
refined.” 


120 Her American Daughter 

“But what does it mean, senora ? The dictionary 
gives sympathetic , and I’m sure that’s very inappro- 
priate.” 

“I know nothing of your English, but simpatica — 
ah ! that is a great word and means many things — 
una senorita con mucho sentimiento, a senorita who 
is all heart and who appeals to one’s very soul !” 

A ripple of derision was the only comment; and 
Benita, coming in with a lighted lamp, paused on the 
threshold to survey the picture — Dolores leaning 
forward in her chair with her hands clasped and her 
eyes raised fervently to heaven, and Ray on the floor 
rocking herself back and forth in an ecstacy of mirth. 

“You may laugh,” said the old Spanishwoman, 
“but it is the truth I am telling you. When a Cabal- 
lero sees a charming senorita on the street, and he 
feels that she is simpatica to him, he follows her 
home and asks at the porteria if she is married. If 
so, he goes away in despair! but if she is neither 
wed nor betrothed he may make love to her — when 
the duenna is looking the other way ! . . . 

“Ah! I remember — long years ago, when Jose 
and I were first married and living in my dear 
Seville — how one day I was coming home from mar- 
ket with my basket on my arm, and a young Cabal- 
lero, very handsome and richly dressed, spoke to me 
and followed me on the street. And I — ah ! well, I 
was young and full of fun, and I did not let him 
guess that I was married ! So he carried my basket 
for me, though it was not seemly for a fine gentle- 
man like him to be carrying a market basket full of 
vegetables. On the doorstep I was just about to 


Her American Daughter 


121 


take it from him, saying, ‘Mil gracias, senor !’ when 
— the door opened and there was Jose ! Oh, how he 
scowled at the senor, and how vexed was the senor 
that he had carried the vegetables ! Away he went, in 
a fine temper — and my husband scolded me. But I 
— I only laughed and said : ‘See now, Jose, what is 
there to make you angry ? It was very amiable of the 
senor to help me bring home your dinner/ ” 

“You must have been a beauty!” cried the Ameri- 
can girl, in an outburst of admiration; for the 
senora’s black eyes were sparkling in the rays of 
Benita’s lamp, and despite the silver gleaming of her 
hair the spell of her memories had made her young 
again. 

“Beautiful? no, no, children — I was never that; 
but Jose, he was satisfied,” and she smiled in wifely 
triumph. Suddenly, she laid a finger on her lips 
with an air of mystery, searched her capacious 
pocket for a bunch of keys, started up, unlocked a 
little cupboard in the wall and drew forth a guitar. 
“Sst ! Benita, close the door — I wouldn’t have Don 
Antonio or Francisco to hear me for all the world! 
They would think it very unseemly for a widow of 
my age to be singing and playing a guitar.” She 
tuned the instrument rapidly as she spoke, testing 
the strings with a swift ringing touch, and resuming 
her seat, nodded brightly to Ray. “This is one of the 
songs that Jose used to sing beneath my window in 
Seville, when I was a muchachita such as you !” 

Then, in a voice of rich quality, with no hint of 
age in its round resonance, she began one of the 
unique melodies of Andalusia, full of countless turns 


122 


Her American Daughter 


and quavers, suggestive of clicking castanets, of 
swaying figures and the soft frou-frou of silken 
skirts. 


“Para ninas de gracia, 
las de Sevilla, 
que prenden corazones 
en la mantilla; 

que prenden corazo-o-o-o-nes 
con alfileres, 
en la mantilla — 
en la manti-i-i-i-lla !” 

.The last note had scarcely died into silence when 
a volley of hand-clappings sounded outside in the 
hall, where Peter and the Staffords were listening 
delightedly. But Dolores, instead of granting them 
an encore, fled away to the kitchen, whither they all 
pursued her, till she threatened them from the door 
with a great soup spoon, vowing that they ought to 
take shame to themselves for making sport of an 
old woman — and a widow at that ! 


CHAPTER XI 


In speaking of his sister Isabel, Hal Thornton had 
observed that “the attraction of a pretty woman was 
liable to become coercive where her relatives were 
concerned and Russell, in spite of his former disap- 
proval of the sentiment, was forced now to admit its 
truth. For Mrs. Dering, who had received and wel- 
comed him as her brother’s proxy, showed a dispo- 
sition to accept his attendance as a matter of course. 
He was stopping at the same hotel, and it was but 
natural that he should take his meals at the same 
table with his friend’s aunt and sister; natural, too, 
that he should question them concerning their plans 
for each day’s entertainment and — being the chival- 
rous gentleman he was — put himself at their dis- 
posal for all services that their courier was unable to 
perform. In fact, as Mrs. Dering’s antipathy to that 
useful but extortionate individual increased, Russell 
became their constant escort ; and this, together with 
the demands made upon his time by the small circle 
of acquaintances that he had formed during his pre- 
vious stay, left him not a moment to devote to the 
work which should have been his primary object. 

A week spent in this manner convinced him that 
a change of residence would be advisable, but it was 
Mr. Stafford who first suggested that he would have 
in the senora’s home the needed quiet and freedom 


124 


Her American Daughter 


from interruption. The idea found favor with him 
at once — for various reasons : first, he told himself 
that among this party of artists, who took their own 
work seriously, he would receive more consideration 
than he could ever expect among idlers and pleasure 
seekers; then, too, Peter’s revelation in the gallery 
had awakened his sympathies for the disheartened 
painter and his brave little helpmeet. To the author, 
Mrs. Stafford’s story appealed as one of life’s unrec- 
ognized tragedies; and it had occurred to him that 
he might lighten her labors, give an impetus to her 
husband’s fortunes and help himself at the same 
time. For he had, besides the book on which he was 
engaged, a nearly completed series of articles on 
Spanish festivals, that had been ordered by one of 
the leading American monthlies, and for the illus- 
tration of which he had been given almost unlimited 
authority. It occurred to him that Mr. Stafford 
could be intrusted with much of this, and when the 
proposition was made to the artist he received it with 
grateful willingness. 

It was arranged between them, that besides mak* 
ing a number of studies in Madrid, the painter 
should avail himself of the Holy Week excursions 
to Seville and obtain sketches of the religious pro- 
cessions and more picturesque types and costumes of 
southern Spain. And Russell felt that this oppor- 
tunity of personally supervising the illustration of 
his writings was singularly fortunate, for — like most 
authors — he had suffered not a little from misinter- 
pretations of his text. Under the circumstances, 
there was nothing remarkable, or discourteous to 


Her American Daughter 125 

Mrs. Dering, in his removal from the hotel to join 
the American colony in the Calle Mayor; so it was 
expeditiously accomplished on the Saturday of that 
same week. 

If any other motive underlay his more obvious 
reasons, none but Russell himself could be actually 
aware of it. 

The morning after his arrival, it being Sunday, 
the senora’s coffeepot made frequent trips to the 
kitchen to be warmed over for the tardy comers. 
Ray was last of all ; she came in rosy from her long 
sleep and exclaimed to find the others still seated at 
the table. 

“We waited for your majesty, of course,” declared 
Peter mischievously, rising with exaggerated defer- 
ence to place her chair in position. “Could a South 
Carolinian have done better than that, Reina mia?” 
he whispered, as she took her seat. To which, hav- 
ing no adequate retort, she feigned a sudden deaf- 
ness. 

“This, you know, is the first day of the Carnival,” 
said Mr. Stafford, “but Don Antonio has just been 
telling us that it will hardly amount to much, owing 
to the depressing circumstances in which Spain now 
finds herself. Still, anything will serve as an excuse 
for a bull fight; and although, during the winter 
season, none of the distinguished toreros are in 
Madrid, today’s fight will probably be better than 
any that will take place during the next month, at 
least. The ‘corrida de toros’ is the great national 
spectacle which no visitor to Spain can afford to 
neglect; it will doubtless be an important feature in 


126 Her American Daughter 

the articles that I am to have the pleasure of illustra- 
ting for Mr. Russell, so I don’t wish to lose this 
opportunity of making some preliminary studies. 
Peter accompanies me, and we are waiting to know 
if you and Mrs. Stafford care to join us.” 

Ray flushed crimson and hesitated. “I have made 
up my mind,” she slowly avowed, “that I will see one 
bull fight before I leave Madrid, provided that — that 
I don’t have to go on Sunday.” 

“You need not,” said Russell quickly. “There 
will be saints’ days enough in the next few months 
to give you several opportunities — not to mention 
Easter Monday, which is always the occasion for one 
of the greatest fights of the year.” 

“I don’t know that I’ll go at all,” said Mrs. Staf- 
ford with a shudder. “Certainly not today. I’ve 
had a tiring week and need absolute rest.” With 
that, she excused herself to Ray and left the room. 

“Well,” announced Peter, “Mr. Stafford and I 
will take in the show by ourselves — unless Mr. Rus- 
sell will change his mind.” 

“No, I think not,” said the author. “Profes- 
sional motives will drive me to the arena later in the 
season, when Mazzantini* and Reverte and other 
famous espadas are to be seen; but I don’t care to 
witness any less artistic butchery.” Then he added, 
smiling at Miss Woodward, “I must confess, too, to 
an inherited awe of the Tythingman.” 

“Well, bye-bye!” cried Peter, departing in Mr. 
Stafford’s wake; but as he reached the door he 
looked back with a merry grin, saying: “This, you 
know, is literally a case of the ox in the pit !” 


Her American Daughter 127 

The girl laughed and shook her head, and when 
they were alone she turned impulsively to the Bos- 
tonian. “Thank you for keeping me in countenance. 
I’ll be doing violence to my conscience if I go at all, 
— it must be a revolting sight ! And I simply couldn’t 
go on Sunday; we artists make little enough of the 
day as it is. I wasn’t brought up to spend the whole 
of it in sight-seeing and amusement, and it makes 
me feel like a heathen. I’ve been thinking seriously 
of asking the senora to let me go to mass with her 
this morning. ,, 

“A still better plan,” suggested Russell, “would 
be to go with me to the chapel of the British Lega- 
tion, where there is an English service every Sun- 
day at eleven o’clock. It is very near the Plaza San 
Domingo, not more than twenty minutes’ walk from 
here.” 

“The British Legation ? Good for old England ! 
wherever the Union Jack hangs out, you may count 
on finding a Book of Common Prayer somewhere in 
its shadow. I am very glad to hear it. Henceforth, 
I shall gratefully join in the prayers for Her 
Majesty the Queen, the Prince of Wales and all the 
Royal Family!” 

She had slipped away while speaking, and it was 
not until the yellow portieres had fallen behind her 
that Russell asked himself whether his invitation 
had been accepted. He decided that it had, and at 
twenty minutes of eleven he came out again into the 
dining room to meet her. As there were no signs 
of her appearance he sat down at the empty table 
with his newspaper. A quarter of an hour went by. 


128 


Her American Daughter 


Then the paper was thrown aside and he paced the 
room for five minutes more. Finally, he called 
Benita and requested her to knock at Miss Wood- 
ward’s door and inquire when she would be ready. 

Benita laughed. “The senorita went out nearly 
twenty minutes ago,” she said. 

“Impossible !” declared Russell, “for I was sitting 
here, and she couldn’t have passed through without 
my knowledge.” 

Benita lifted the yellow portieres and pointed to 
the rear passage. “She went along that to the 
kitchen, senor, and then out into the front hall, and 
I opened the door for her very softly, thus — ” 

There was a twinkle in the little maid’s eye, and 
her expressive pantomine was, to say the least of it, 
a trifle irritating. Russell questioned no further, 
but went quietly into his own room and shut the 
door. 

“There be three things,” said Agur the son of 
Jakeh, “which are too wonderful for me, yea, four 
which I know not : The way of an eagle in the air; 
the way of a serpent upon the rock ; the way of a ship 
in the midst of the sea ; and the way of a man with 
a maid.” We marvel greatly that to these four he 
added not a fifth, for, since the days of our mother 
Eve, woman-nature has changed little, and the way 
of a maid with a man can never be forecast with 
anything like certainty. One general proposition, 
however, we would present for masculine consider- 
ation : at this critical stage of acquaintanceship, the 


Her American Daughter 129 

woman’s actions are usually directly opposed to her 
inclinations, hence, it is the unexpected which 
happens. 

Our heroine had arrived at the point when she 
must either follow the course she had laid down and 
suppress, with a strong hand, any attempt to bring 
about a greater intimacy, or she must lower her flag 
and admit to herself her own willingness for a trait- 
orous peace. Somehow, as she privately debated the 
question that Sunday morning, her grievance against 
the author dwindled into petty insignificance. From 
a transatlantic standpoint it was very hard to dis- 
cern sectional lines; they seemed to be merged in 
the vast perspective, and her mind’s eye had begun 
to perceive only the magnitude and the unity of the 
great country that was hers. But it was some time 
before she realized this; and now a sudden fear, 
that her disloyal weakening toward the author was 
due to a growing preference for his society, filled 
her with hot confusion. All healthy natures are 
quick to throw off the first attacks of the little germ 
of love — but the more vigorously it is rejected in the 
beginning, the greater the ultimate danger ! 

“ I couldn't go with him!” Ray told herself with 
nervous vehemence, as she opened her guide book 
and carefully studied a map of the city’s streets. 
“What would Louise think of me? I couldn't!” 

Her conscience troubled her, however, as Benita 
noiselessly unlocked the outer door, and a vague 
impression of Russell’s profile, bending over his 
newspaper, haunted her as she descended the long 
stairway. She tried to persuade herself that his 


130 Her American Daughter 

remark could hardly be construed into a definite 
invitation ; he had said only that “it would be a better 
plan.” If he had really intended to offer his escort, 
he had made a mistake in employing the conditional 
mood; for one could neither accept nor refuse an 
invitation couched in those terms. Still, she hoped 
he would not think her rude. If he had any idea of 
waiting for her he would probably be late for serv- 
ice. He was evidently going himself, and she liked 
that in him, — at least, she would have liked it in any 
one else ! 

Out in the street the atmosphere was mild and 
windless. As she passed through the Puerta del 
Sol she observed that the great square was compara- 
tively deserted; the usual throng of street venders 
were absent, so were the idlers on the corner ; there 
was quite a Sabbath calm over all. The buildings, 
in their light tones of cream or gray or palest red, 
where the golden sunlight had touched them into 
stronger relief, stood out in sharp contrast with the 
deep blue sky, or, veiled in violet shadows, melted 
away into its azure depths. Ray turned into the 
Calle de Preciados, and, keeping the sunny pave- 
ment, walked rapidly, with now and then a nervous 
glance behind. She reached the Plaza San 
Domingo without difficulty, and had just halted 
there in some perplexity as to what her next step 
should be, when just a little in advance of her she 
saw two ladies in quiet street costume with their 
hair dressed in unmistakably English fashion. She 
followed them closely, and presently came to a large, 
massive building with gloomy portals that opened 


Her American Daughter 131 

directly on the street. Her unconscious guides 
entered and led the way, through a dark passage on 
the ground floor, to a small door outside of which 
hung a placard announcing the hours for service. 
After reading this, Ray went in unhesitatingly and 
found herself in a small, low-ceiled room furnished 
very simply as a chapel. 

Taking her seat in one of the first rows of chairs, 
she looked around her. There were about fifteen 
or twenty persons present, all utter strangers. With 
a rising lump in her throat, she found the places in 
her own little prayer book, and winked hard for a 
few minutes as a wave of homesickness overflowed 
her spirit. At last, the white surpliced figure in the 
tiny chancel rose and came forward, saying: 

“The Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth 
keep silence before Him.” 

As she heard these words, it seemed to Ray that 
the proportions of the narrow room were changed. 
She shut her eves — and saw the familiar white walls 
and arched ceiling, the old-fashioned carved pulpit 
with its mahogany sounding board and narrow 
stair, and the rows of mural tablets that she had 
studied through all the Sundays of her childhood. 
In fancy, she heard the sweet old chimes of St. 
Michael’s bells and the organs mellow undertone; 
and she saw again, in one corner of the square, high 
pew, her grandmother’s delicate old face, tenderly 
framed in the soft ruching of her widow’s bonnet. 
At the other end of the pew was her father’s mili' 
tary figure — arms folded and gray head erect, and 


132 Her American Daughter 

close at her side was Louise, whose round, childish 
face bent with hers over the same little prayer book. 

In a dream, she followed the whole service; and 
when it was over, and she had come out again into 
the street, she walked on for some minutes quite 
oblivious to the course she was taking. Then, with 
a start of surprise, she woke to the fact that she was 
in an unfamiliar neighborhood. She tried to remem- 
ber whether she had turned to the right or left in 
leaving the Plaza San Domingo, and failing in 
this, took wise note of the sun's position and hurried 
on in what she believed to be the direction of the 
Puerta del Sol. 

In a city where beggars, unrebuked, sun them- 
selves by palace walls, and ragged groups of light- 
hearted and light-fingered golf os cease squabbling 
over dropped coins — or more illegitimate pickings 
— to stare impudently at a royal cavalcade, the Car- 
nival has of necessity many aspects. While the 
wealthier classes indulge in a masquerade more or 
less innocent at ball room and theatre, the festival 
on the street is given up to the people — to shop girls 
and serving maids, tradesmen and lackeys. At cer- 
tain hours and in certain quarters of the city, gay 
Caballeros, also, sally forth in fantastic or grotesque 
disguise; but the senora or senorita takes no active 
part in the out door revels. To appear masked upon 
a public thoroughfare would be to expose herself to 
the rough jests of the good humored but riotous 
mob that pervades the streets from Sunday noon till 
Tuesday night. However, during the early hours 


Her American Daughter 133 

of the Carnival, when the air is aglitter with paper 
confetti, she may drive undisguised in her landau 
through the Paseo de Recoletos (which is to Madrid 
what the Row is to London), for there she will 
encounter only the mas car ones of her own social 
class: of these, the greater number prefer the dis- 
guise of a bebe — a monster doll, with huge simpering 
pasteboard head, beruffled cap and short, full dress 
of pink, blue, pale green or lavender, beneath which 
are black stockinged legs and lace trimmed petticoats 
very much in evidence ; and every now and then one 
of them will spring up behind her carriage, if it be 
filled with pretty faces, and scatter therein unstinted 
compliments and handfuls of confetti, while paper 
serpentinos aimed deftly by other admiring hands 
will fly over her head, uncoiling in a gay parabola. 
But through the successive strata of social life, 
Carnival customs descend by swift stages from light 
badinage to coarse jesting, from graceful play to 
rowdyism and riot — just as the bright confetti that 
are first showered over a Paris bonnet are afterward 
scooped from the gutter and scattered again and 
again by the dirty little hands of the golfo. 

This year, despite Don Antonio’s prediction to 
the contrary, there were great numbers of gay, 
unthinking spirits whose ardor was undampened 
by the national anxieties. The fiddling Neros are 
not all of Rome; indeed, it is everywhere remark- 
able how little either public or private calamities 
depress those who have met with no personal loss. 

By twelve o’clock that Sunday morning, the Sab- 
bath calm no longer reigned in any of the principal 


134 Her American Daughter 

avenues or squares. In the poorer quarters of the 
city, clowns and punchinellos in tarnished motley, 
long tailed devils in the cast off garments of last 
year’s demoniac crew, and numberless grotesque 
figures that had simply changed their sex and added 
a pasteboard head of villainous appearance, strug- 
gled and shouted together in uncouth glee. 

But the wide avenue of the Prado was alive with 
masqueraders of another sort, and by the white 
fountain of Cybele a stream of handsome equipages 
flowed into the Recoletos. 

The American girl had so far mistaken her proper 
course that she was rapidly approaching this scene 
of revelry. Her attention had already been attrac- 
ted, even in the quiet streets through which she was 
passing, by occasional mascarones hurrying to some 
rendezvous, and as she went on, the absence of famil- 
iar landmarks caused her some uneasiness : but she 
saw no one whom she cared to address, and there 
was no possibility of her becoming lost, for the first 
street car she met would convey her to the Puerta 
del Sol where all the lines of the city converge. With 
this assurance she was just comforting herself when 
she heard, behind her, rapid steps and a voice cry- 
ing: 

“Whither goes La Reina Americana?” 

At the sound of the familiar sobriquet, which Don 
Francisco used on all occasions, Ray turned hastily. 
A slight, graceful youth was bending in obeisance 
so profound that the velvet cap in his hand 
approached the pointed toe of his leather buskin. He 
was attired in what was intended for the garb of a 


Her American Daughter 135 

troubadour, with long hose and belted tunic; a gay- 
mantle covered his shoulders and screened the lower 
part of his face, while a small black mask and a wig 
of flowing hair completed the disguise. It was the 
dress adopted by all the members of a club of ama- 
teur musicians to which belonged some of the wild- 
est spirits among the gilded youth of Madrid. But 
Ray thought she recognized the bow, and the voice 
and figure seemed familiar, so without a moment’s 
hesitation she exclaimed : 

“Don Francisco!” 

“If I disown that name I am no less a slave of the 
Queen of Hearts.” 

“It must be Don Francisco,” she insisted. “Else 
how would you have known me?” 

“He would be a blind man who failed to recognize 
a ray of sun,” replied the mask, with another grace- 
ful salute. 

“Ah ! it is you,” exclaimed the girl, with a sigh 
of relief; there was no mistaking Francisco’s stereo- 
typed compliments. “Please tell me how to reach 
the Puerta del Sol — I’ve missed my way.” 

“All ways are the queen’s,” he answered, 
“although the peon * may only move forward.” 

“But the knight’s move, caballero, would lead me 
to the square I wish to reach,” declared Ray laugh- 
ingly. She felt perfect confidence in this young 
Spaniard, for she had often heard Dolores say' that 

*A play on the word, which means either slave , or pawn 
in chess. 


136 


Her American Daughter 


Francisco was a good youth, and in all her inter- 
course with him he had shown her nothing but 
respectful admiration. 

At her ready sally the troubadour bowed once 
again, and his dark eyes sparkled behind the little 
slits in his black mask. “Will the queen follow 
me?” he asked. 

“Only so far as she may, and it is to her interest 
to do so,” the girl retaliated. And, when he bowed 
once more and led her onward dowrn the narrow, 
sunny street, she added, mischievously: “She may 
outstrip you; or, if the distance is great, would she 
not gain by the exchange if she abandoned her 
knight and took a — street car?” 

The mask sighed deeply. “You would play a 
cruel game, Reina mia. I fear now that I may find 
a rival on that square.” 

“You have no right to have any fears or hopes in 
the matter,” admonished the little American, half 
seriously. “Dolores has told me where your alle- 
giance is due.” 

“Then Dolores, whoever she may be, has misled 
you. I am a free lance, senorita, and can offer my 
allegiance where I will.” 

“Whoever she may be!” echoed Ray, in sudden 
alarm. “Who are you , that you do not know 
Dolores ?” 

Her companion, perceiving that he had made a 
slip, sought to retrieve it. “Certainly I know 
Dolores. What is more, Reina mia, I know many 


Her American Daughter 137 

of the name — which is common enough; but you, 
perhaps, know only one. For the moment I had for- 
gotten who was in your thoughts.” 

“But you could not, had you been Don Fran- 
cisco !” she retorted, her suspicions now thoroughly 
aroused. “Pray leave me, caballero, I would much 
prefer to go alone,” and she quickened her pace 
almost to a run. 

“I knew I had a rival on that square,” returned 
the mask, easily keeping step with her. “So the 
pawn’s move, you see, was the wisest.” 

It had brought them to the Prado. 

The scene that met Ray’s eyes would at any other 
time have roused her keen enjoyment, so full it was 
of color, light and movement. The sky burned blue, 
and vivid noon spread shadowless over the wide ave- 
nue. Afar off, between gray, feathery lines of leaf- 
less trees, the silvery summits of the snow clad 
mountains glittered coldly on the horizon. But 
from overhead it snowed sparkles of color ; and ser- 
pentinos, like rainbows gone mad, fluttered and 
whirled, festooning themselves in the bare branches 
above or writhing under foot in blue and crimson 
coils. 

Ray, however, saw nothing but a prismatic blur. 
She heard laughter and gay cries, the clatter of 
hoofs and the whirr of carriage wheels. Before 
starting on another flight she glanced to right and 
left in utter dismay, for the pavement was crowded 
with fantastic forms. At her elbow, the troubadour 
was imploring in extravagant phrases that she would 
take his arm for a promenade along the sidewalk. 


138 Her American Daughter 

“One single turn, senorita, and then I swear I 
will place you in safety on the tramvia that goes 
straight to the Puerta del Sol. Fear nothing, mi 
Reina, mi vida! Only walk with me one momen- 
tito — ” 

But Ray was off, the sight of a street car in the 
distance had lent wings to her feet. 

The troubadour gave chase. 

“Anda F cried a gay voice near by. “Run F 

“Stop her F called the troubadour ; and a serpen- 
tino flying overhead settled in a gaudy noose about 
her shoulders, while right in her path an impish 
mascaron in pink petticoats capered a frantic ballet. 
She threw up her hands to free herself of the fragile 
fetter, swerved aside to avoid the bebe’s open arms, 
and darted on with a whole troop of merrymakers 
in pursuit — one of whom stooped suddenly to pick 
up a tiny book, bound in worn morocco, that had fal- 
len to the pavement. 

Just then a familiar voice exclaimed: “Well, 
Miss Ray ! Is this your idea of a nice, quiet way to 
spend the Sabbath ?” 

“Oh, Peter F she gasped, seizing him by the arm. 
“Take me away — just take me awayF 

“I intend to,” he responded dryly ; and heedless of 
the impudent sallies of those revellers whom he had 
baulked of their prey, he forced a passage through 
the crowd till a comparatively quiet corner had been 
reached. Pausing there to await the street car, he 
scrutinized his companion with politely suppressed 
amusement. 


Her American Daughter 


139 


Ray’s own sense of humor was inwardly making 
mock of her, and when the dignified statement that 
she had been to church exploded the last vestige of 
Peter’s gravity, she joined in the laugh and followed 
it with a full confession. 

“So Russell tried to be civil and got snubbed for 
his pains,” commented the boy, regarding her sol- 
emnly with his hands thrust deep in his pockets. 

She colored high. “Don’t — don’t put it that way, 
Peter.” 

“Hm! that’s the way he'll put it,” was the com- 
forting assurance. 


CHAPTER XII 


That night, at nine o’clock, in the ladies’ salon of 
the Hotel de Paris, Eliot Russell was awaiting Mrs. 
Dering, to whom he had sent up his card five min- 
utes earlier. As he sank luxuriously into the satin 
embrace of a capacious armchair, a distinct sense of 
physical well-being overcame him. The thick piled 
carpet was soft under his feet, the large windows 
were warmly curtained with dull hued tapestries. A 
mellow light, diffused throughout the apartment, 
was focused most strongly at the further end where 
sat two persons — an elderly gentleman, half hidden 
behind a newspaper, and a pale, big-browed girl in 
spectacles, who was perched awkwardly before an 
open piano, her long thin fingers wandering over its 
ivory keys with soft, sympathetic touch. 

Mentally contrasting these surroundings with his 
cramped little room in the senora’s flat — the uncom- 
promising straightbacked chairs, the inhospitable 
brazier with its unwieldy wooden rim encumbering 
the floor, the ingrain carpet through which might be 
felt every inequality of the tiles beneath — Russell 
asked himself, honestly, why he had made the 
change. For his work’s sake he had sought a more 
restful atmosphere; and yet, within twenty-four 
hours after his removal from the hotel, he had 
returned to it as to a haven of refuge. He had imag- 


Her American Daughter 


141 


ined himself overtaxed by the attentions due to Mrs. 
Dering from her brother’s friend; yet, only this 
morning, he had offered to Miss Woodward a small 
measure of the same courtesy, and her inexplicable 
rejection of it had caused him more mental disturb- 
ance than Mrs. Dering could have brought about in 
a month. He must be very thinskinned, he thought 
resentfully. What a frail thing was a man’s pride 
that so slight a prick should touch him on the raw ! 
He almost wished that he could comfort himself 
with a frank scorn of the girl’s ill breeding; but 
her conduct had been only a polite intimation that 
she wanted none of his society. And if she had been 
of this mind from the beginning she must have found 
him strangely obtuse ! His brow burned as he recalled 
how he had sought her in the gallery. Now, the 
question was whether or no he should remain with 
Dolores. An immediate removal would be tanta- 
mount to an admission of — of what? He need not 
be on terms of intimacy with all his fellow boarders ; 
Miss Woodward had simply fixed the limits of their 
acquaintanceship; henceforward, their intercourse 
could be confined to the formal courtesies of the 
table — for, except at meals, they need never meet. 
After the morning’s episode it had suited him to 
lunch at a cafe ; so he had seen nothing of her until 
dinner time, when she had appeared rather preoccu- 
pied, giving but little heed to Peter’s graphic account 
of the afternoon’s performance in the arena and the 
narrow escape of a picador who had fallen from his 
horse. Only once, as she was rising from the table, 


142 


Her American Daughter 


she had glanced in his direction with a distinctly 
propitiatory smile, and he wondered if it were possi- 
ble that — 

“Mr. Russell, I have kept you waiting an uncon-> 
scionable time !” With a soft trailing of silken dra- 
peries, Mrs. Dering was beside him, both hands 
extended. 

As the author started to his feet he inly chided 
himself for having felt so little impatience to see her. 
In the exquisite completeness of her costume was a 
subtle compliment to his taste, and even though his 
masculine perceptions failed to grasp each perfect 
detail he was agreeably conscious of the whole effect : 
he felt her to be the supremely beautiful note in the 
harmony of that well appointed room. Against the 
silvery grayness of her gown, she wore on her bosom 
a knot of purple violets, from which a breath of per- 
fume — a mere whispered sweetness — reached him as 
he resumed his seat. At the other end of the room, 
the big-browed girl was softly playing Kennst du 
das Land. Russell began to feel that all his angles 
— of which throughout the day he had been absurdly, 
painfully conscious— were disintegrating and melt- 
ing away. 

He recalled a summer vacation in Canada, nearly 
twelve years past, when a young Harvard graduate 
and a stripling sophomore — after six weeks of camp 
life, fishing and tramping — had turned up, sun- 
burned and happy, at Quebec ; and there on Duff erin 
Terrace, one afternoon in the clear August twilight 
when the stars were stealing out overhead and 
across the wide St. Lawrence like a chain of threaded 


Her American Daughter 


143 


sparks were gleaming the lights of Point Levis, they 
had unexpectedly encountered Thornton senior, stal- 
wart, grayhaired and gracious, and with him an 
imperious blond fairy of thirteen. The eager blue 
eyes of the little Isabel, the insistent ring in the 
childish voice as she demanded to know everything, 
to hear everything that they had seen and done, 
recurred to Russell now as he caught the bright ques- 
tioning of Mrs. Dering’s glance; but instead of 
answering her half uttered queries in regard to his 
new abode and fellow inmates, he leaned forward 
with a sudden smile and put a question in his turn. 

Now, when a man and a woman in a strange land 
chance to be alone together under the soothing influ- 
ences of shaded lamps and quiet music, and their 
every speech is prefaced with Do you remember? a 
certain little god pulls off the bandage from his eyes, 
drops his bow and quiver, and with a silken skein of 
pleasant memories begins to weave a web about them 
both. For Cupid is a wanton mischief maker, as 
whimsical as he is unscrupulous, and man, poor man ! 
— purblind and wrapped in a so tender vanity — is 
often his innocent coadjutor. 

An hour slipped by, during which the old gentle- 
man, who was stout and somnolent, remained invisi- 
ble behind his newspaper, and the pale girl bending 
nearsightedly over the piano lost herself utterly in 
classic preludes and intermezzos. But at last the 
young musician rose abruptly and left the room ; the 
old gentleman awoke with a start and followed her, 
crumpling his newspaper noisily as he went out ; and 
then fate — that current of unrelated circumstances 


144 Her American Daughter 

I 

which in real life so often wrecks the most artistic 
plots — swept in, and Cupid’s net vanished like a cob- 
web in the blast. 

A burst of unmodulated laughter, a skurry of 
skirts, and there entered two pretty, loud voiced, over 
dressed girls, followed by a self conscious youth with 
very auburn hair. There was some friendly rivalry 
over the piano stool, which was finally decided in 
favor of the red-haired youth, who squared himself 
before the instrument and proceeded to hammer out 
a noisy two step, in execrable tempo. 

Russell moved impatiently in his seat and Mrs. 
Dering elevated her shoulders gently. “One of the 
pleasures of hotel life!” she murmured with resigna- 
tion, and inquired once more how Russell liked his 
new quarters. 

With nerves on edge, he described Dolores as a 
Madonna of the frying-pan, Francisco as the per- 
sonification of gallantry and garlic, Don Antonio as 
a vest pocket edition of Cervantes — and hated him- 
self all the while for doing it. 

The performance at the piano soon resolved itself 
into a duet, to which the red haired youth played the 
accompaniment while in shrill unison his companions 
chanted the most inane of the popular songs of the 
day — one of the kind that has its genesis on the 
music hall stage and that travels widely and swiftly 
over the lower planes and inartistic levels of our 
national taste till the hurdy gurdy man performs its 
lingering obsequies. 

“Who are these people?” asked Russell, rising at 
last in desperation. 


Her American Daughter 


145 


"Americans, of course,” said Mrs. Dering under 
her breath, "and from the South, I imagine, from 
their accent. .The girls are pretty enough, — but how 
about your theory?” 

This was an unfortunate reference to a remark 
made a few days previously, just after Russell’s con- 
versation with Ray Woodward in the gallery. The 
author had been talking "shop” to Mrs. Dering, and 
had admitted, half jestingly, that to him the hour of 
supreme interest in the evolution of a novel was that 
in which he first conceived the personality of his 
heroine. She demanded: Had the psychological 
moment passed in the present case? It was only 
dawning, he confessed, a little consciously ; extreme 
youth was one requisite, as he was dealing with a 
Spaniard — for womanhood blooms early in most 
southern latitudes. Then he had added : "I some- 
times think that the most interesting type of southern 
woman is to be found in our own country, where 
there is no less poetry and far more mentality and 
spirituality than among the women of southern 
Europe.” 

To have other people discover a flaw in one of his 
theories — especially in one that has been the out- 
growth of a sentiment — is what no man enjoys. 
"There are exceptions to everything,” declared Rus- 
sell defensively, and retreated in haste with the shrill 
refrain pursuing him down the corridor. 

As the outer silence enfolded him, he drew a long 
breath of content. The great open Puerta del Sol 
held now a vast pillar of the night darkness, jeweled 
round its base by rows upon rows of lighted win- 


146 Her American Daughter 

dows. Overhead, immeasurably high, a few stars 
glimmered — small, keen points of brightness prick- 
ing through the vaulted black. From this wide 
peace he crossed reluctantly into the Calle Mayor 
where, late as it was, several masked figures were to 
be seen among the scattered groups along the side- 
walk, and in the air were sounds of laughter with a 
distant tinkle of guitars. Further down the street 
he caught sight of a gaily decorated float that had 
come to a stand directly before the tenement in which 
Dolores lived. Seated within it were about fifteen 
young men in troubadour garb ; and, as he 
approached, the tinkling prelude closed with a ring- 
ing chord and the men’s voices softly rose in a tender 
love song written to the measure of the pavana. 
The gliding movement was plainly marked by the 
low chanting of the basses, through which a tenor 
voice, singularly pure and clear, threaded the grace- 
ful melody. 

Russell paused to listen at the nearest corner, and 
lost himself in a maze of thought. This fantastic bit 
of serenading chimed in harmoniously with his 
mood, just as the sympathetic touch of the pale 
young musician had soothed him on his first arrival 
at the hotel. The crass performance, which followed 
that, had seemed like a desecration ; but now, for all 
he knew, something infinitely less innocent might 
lurk behind the tuneful pleading of these bright 
plumaged night birds, and yet they in no degree 
offended his fastidious fancy. Pondering this, he 
reminded himself of a thought which had recently 
struck him with some force — that in the Maker of 


Her American Daughter 


147 


the universe was vested not only the Supreme Intelli- 
gence but the Supreme Taste, — and he groped 
vaguely for the divine standards by which were 
tested finally what things in this world were good. 

There was a clatter of horses’ feet on the stones as 
the singers drove on down the street; and, at that 
moment, from the wide open, brightly lighted door- 
way which Russell himself was about to enter, a 
slight figure in a crimson mantle darted out and 
swung himself lightly into a seat among the others 
on the float. 

Just within the doorway was the bent form of the 
old portero, in a low wooden chair tipped back 
against the side wall of the long passage, a copy of 
El Pais spread out over his knees, and in his hands, 
held close against his eyes, a small white paper parcel. 
He looked up with an air of relief as Russell entered. 

“A thousand pardons ; but would the senor have 
the goodness to read me what is written here?” 

The American bent over to receive the parcel, 
turned it to the light and read aloud the superscrip- 
tion: (( To the honorable Sehorita Woodward — La 
Reina Americana — on the third piso of this building, 
by the hands of the portero ” 

That worthy sighed deeply, and rubbed the stiff 
joints of his rheumatic knees. “The third piso!” he 
grumbled. “It is for the pretty young foreigner who 
lodges with Dona Dolores. But the third piso — oh, 
my poor back !” 

“Was this brought by the mask in the crimson 
mantle?” asked Russell quietly. 


148 


Her American Daughter 


“Si, senor — by that same honorable caballero,” 
amended the old man in grateful consideration of the 
pesetas in his pocket; then laziness being his beset- 
ting sin, he added insinuatingly : “It is very high up, 
the third piso — and the senor is doubtless a friend of 
the senorita ; the parcel would therefore be as safe in 
his hands as in my own.” 

“You wish me to deliver it?” Russell demanded. 

“If the senor would be so kind, and it would not 
inconvenience him too much! It would have been 
presumptuous to ask, but as the senor has offered — 
being a friend of the senorita, and the stairs being so 
steep — a hundred thousand thanks ! May his honor 
sleep well!” and a torrent of wordy blessings fol- 
lowed the younger man as he lightly mounted the 
worn wooden steps of the long ascent. But small 
as the parcel was, it weighed heavily on Russell's 
thoughts as he fitted his latch key in the senora’s 
door. 

The little flat was warm and cheerful; in the 
dining room, the rays of the large oil lamp fell upon 
the table in a bright circle and glowed vividly on a 
dish of golden oranges in the centre of the white 
cloth. All the chairs, save one, were empty; but 
Peter, with an open newspaper and a cigarette 
between his fingers, sat just where Russell had left 
him a couple of hours earlier. He looked up now 
with a gesture of welcome. 

“Awfully glad to see you ! It's really not late, but 
everyone’s deserted me. Francisco was the last — 
he’d be a pleasant fellow enough if one could only 
understand half of what he was saying.” 


Her American Daughter 


149 


.The boy’s rueful face won a sympathetic smile 
from the author, who laid the parcel on the table and 
asked if Miss Woodward had retired. 

“I think she has,” said Peter, leaning forward to 
read the address. “Why, how did this come?” he 
questioned eagerly, and as Russell explained, he took 
the little bundle in his hand and felt it with inquisi- 
tive fingers. “As I live — this must be the missing 
prayer book. She was awfully cut up this morning 
when she found she’d lost it — wanted to advertise 
in the papers. She’ll be tremendously glad to get it 
back.” 

“How did she happen to lose it?” Russell asked 
the question in spite of himself. 

Peter chuckled reminiscently. “I don’t suppose 
she’d mind your knowing,” he mused. “Have a cig- 
arette? No? Well, I prefer cigars myself but I can’t 
afford to smoke them — No, thank you, I’ve just lit 
this and it’s my limit for tonight — must consider my 
nerves, you know. Well, as I was saying, I don’t 
believe she’d mind my telling you,” and leaning back 
in his chair he drew a vivid picture of Ray’s escapade 
that morning. “Of cburse,” he concluded, “it served 
her perfectly right for going off alone. I scolded 
her well for not accepting your escort.” 

At these words his companion flushed painfully; 
under the brown of his cheeks the blood mounted up 
into his high white forehead. “Unfortunately,” he 
said, “my society appears to be distasteful.” 

“Oh, don’t imagine it’s yourself,” cried Peter, 
reassuringly. “I fancy she likes you pretty well. It’s 
an article of yours on South Carolina that has some- 
how rubbed her feelings the wrong way.” 


150 Her American Daughter 

“An article of mine? Not the one that appeared 
recently in The Indicator!” 

“Can’t prove it by me,” said the boy lightly. “You 
know best what slanders you’ve been perpetrating,” 
and with heartless irresponsibility he grinned at the 
troubled countenance before him. 

“Slanders?” eclaimed Russell, his brow contract- 
ing, “I never wrote a slanderous line in my life. If 
that’s the article that has offended her, every word of 
it was true — every word! But all the same — ” he 
laughed shortly and paced the narrow room with 
impatient strides, his hands clasped behind him, his 
head drooped forward, “one doesn’t care to force 
unpalatable home truths on one’s acquaintances.” 

“Miss Ray said it was a superficial study of condi- 
tions,” quoted Peter. 

“Did she? Well, perhaps it was. ... At 
any rate, it was uncalled for. The longer I live, the 
more I see the futility of such criticism. Look 
here — ” he came to an abrupt pause before the boy 
and laid one hand upon his shoulder, “if you thought 
the man across the street was a consequential 
dreamer, and you believed his fine old house was in 
danger of tumbling down about his ears and that he 
couldn’t support his family, would you go and tell 
him your opinions? Would it make him a better 
neighbor if you did?” and he shook the sturdy shoul- 
der with nervous vehemence. 

“Scott! no,” returned Peter, staring back with 
some astonishment; for the self contained Russell 
was revealing himself in a totally new light — some 


Her American Daughter 


151 


leaping- undercurrent of emotion had broken up all 
the surface calm of his nature. “But you didn’t write 
anything like that , — did you?” 

“Hardly!” said the author, releasing his hold. 
“Hardly ! With our opulent vocabulary no one need 
ever descend to such rude English.” He turned 
away abruptly and resumed his restless pacing. 

“But I say — ” it was Peter who broke the silence 
with something like a faint chuckle, “it’s rather comi- 
cal how she feels about her State. Now I’m reason- 
ably patriotic, but I’ve never claimed that the sun 
rose and set in Rhode Island,” and he grinned mirth- 
fully. “But as for Miss Ray, I verily believe she has 
a notion that the first chapter of Genesis runs some- 
thing like this : In the beginning God created South 
Carolina, and the rest of the earth was without form 
and void!” As the words left his lips the expression 
of Russell’s face caused him to turn hastily. 

Through the yellow portieres Ray was entering 
the room. “Don’t be irreverent, Peter,” was her 
only comment, as she went quietly to the sideboard 
and poured out a tumbler of water from the earthen 
botijo on the shelf. 

Russell went quickly forward with the parcel in 
his hand. “The portero intrusted this to me,” he 
said. 

At sight of the superscription the girl flushed 
vividly ; setting her glass of water on the table, she 
tore away the paper wrapping and exposed to view 
the well worn morocco binding. 


152 


Her American Daughter 


“Only think !” cried the irrepressible Peter. “Your 
gay cavalier brought it himself and warbled a sere- 
nade under your window — and I’ll bet you never 
heard a note of it !” 

She drew herself up with dignity, but the reproof 
died on her lips ; for, at that moment, from between 
the leaves of the little volume, a tiny three cornered 
note fluttered out and skated across the floor to Rus- 
sell’s feet. He picked it up hastily and offered it to 
her with an unsmiling countenance. The color in 
her cheeks deepened to carnation as she thanked him 
and returned it to its place; then she lifted her glass 
from the table and left them with a grave Goodnight. 

But once in her own room and the door closed, 
with ice cold, trembling fingers she tore the unread 
missive into bits and threw the fragments on the red 
coals in her brazier, where they were slowly browned 
to a crisp; then, with the long brass ladle that in 
Spain does poker duty, she pounded them into the 
ashes. 

“What must he think of me?” she demanded, still 
fiercely pounding. “And what could have led to that 
speech of Peter’s ? Oh, it is horrible to feel that one 
has been — discussed!” Suddenly dropping the ladle, 
she lifted both hands to her burning cheeks. 


CHAPTER XIII 


It was Ash Wednesday, and the Carnival was 
over. Drifts of soiled confetti were ankle deep along 
the sidewalks ; and, although an army of street clean- 
ers were at work, the wind on the open Prado con- 
tinually whirled up and scattered the dingy sweep- 
ings, hustling them under the rows of benches or 
behind the little booths that sentineled the square. A 
haze of thin gray cloud veiled all the sky, and the 
pallid sunlight failed to summon out a single shadow. 

Beside the great fountain of Neptune, a stone's 
throw from the front entrance of the Royal Museum, 
Ray waited, wind blown but patient, her eyes turned 
toward the distant southern door whence she 
expected Peter, who had gone to the secretary’s 
office for a permit to remove his latest copy. The 
minutes passed, and there were still no signs of him, 
so she leaned idly against the high marble rim of the 
fountain’s basin and watched the drifting spray as it 
broke on the white figures of the sea god and his 
ocean steeds. When a sudden gust of wind flirted the 
drops in her face, she drew back a pace or two and 
discovered, close behind her, a young man embozado 
— as the Spaniards say — in the ample folds of his 
velvet bordered cloak. 


154 Her American Daughter 

As Ray scanned him with a hasty, unrecognizing 
glance, he drew down the muffling capa from a rather 
handsome face and smiled. “What 1” he said, “you 
do not know me?” 

“No,” she replied, flushing with annoyance. 

“But it is I — it is Teodoro,” he persisted. 

“I have no acquaintance of that name,” she an- 
swered frigidly. 

“Ah, senorita,” urged the other, with a gesture of 
appeal, “why this trifling? I find you waiting here 
where I implored you to meet me, and yet — ” 

She interrupted him. “You have mistaken me for 
someone else, caballero. I am waiting for no 
stranger but a friend, a friend — ” she repeated with 
emphasis, “who will soon convince you of your mis- 
take.” 

The young man laughed confidently : “But, Reina 
mia, I am that friend — it was I who found the little 
book of devotions, I who wrote the note. Have you 
no welcome for me now?” 

“That note!” she cried with a flash of comprehen- 
sion. “Why, I burned it without reading it. It was 
perhaps ungrateful of me, as I have you to thank for 
the return of my prayer book. . . . Do not 

cancel the obligation, caballero, by your — ” she hesi- 
tated, her Spanish vocabulary supplying no word 
that was politely conclusive. The man’s countenance, 
uncovered to the honest daylight, was not prepos- 
sessing; there was an insolent familiarity in his 
glance, and she shrank hastily away as he laid a hand 
beside hers on the marble rim. 


Her American Daughter 


155 


“You burned it — yet you are here ! Ah, Reina mia, 
you are not so cruel as you would have me think. I 
waited in vain yesterday, but today I am rewarded.” 

As the situation dawned on her she was speechless. 
Twice every week day she passed this fountain, but 
how was she to prove herself innocent now of keep- 
ing tryst? And the man was smiling, a smile that 
angered her beyond measure. The Carnival episode 
had struck her at first as an amusing anachronism : 
it had seemed like a bit of fourteenth century 
romance when the troubadour in his fantastic dress 
appeared at her elbow. But this — this was a 
trousered creature in a silk hat! This was a nine- 
teenth century impertinence! 

“Senor,” she exclaimed, “you force me to speak 
plainly. Had I known the contents of your note, you 
would never have found me here. American women 
do not make their acquaintances upon the streets.” 

“So !” he said, following her as she walked rapidly 
away, “the senorita is for the proprieties ?” 

Where was Peter ? Why didn’t Peter come ? Ray’s 
heart thumped disagreeably. To walk faster would 
make her conspicuous, and within plain view on 
the wide granite steps of the Museum stood a group 
of Spanish art students — omnipercipient youths who 
were doubtless interested witnesses to her every 
movement. It was unendurable! Desperately, she 
turned and faced him. 

“Senor!” she cried, with an emphatic stamp on 
the flagged pavement — her vocabulary was adapted 


156 Her American Daughter 

chiefly to courteous uses, but she would be as peremp- 
tory as she knew how. “Do me the favor to go 
another way !” 

“At your orders, senorita,” and he lifted his hat 
with an air. “For the present I accept my dismissal. 

But to burn a note without reading it is 
— pardon me — unlike a woman, be she American or 
Spanish.” 

With a glance over her shoulder to convince her- 
self that she was no longer followed, Ray hurried 
to the rear of the Museum and encountered Peter at 
the very door. 

“Awfully sorry I kept you,” he said, “but there’s 
enough red tape here to supply the American gov- 
ernment for six months. Why didn’t you wait 
instead of coming all the way round ?” 

She regarded him earnestly. “If I tell you, will 
you consider it a confidence and advise me like a 
friend, or will you go home and make a good story 
of it at the lunch table?” 

“My dear girl,” protested Peter, “did you ever 
know me to betray a confidence ?” 

“I have no proof,” she said, with her face turned 
away from him, “but I think you have mentioned 
some things to Mr. Russell that I would have pre- 
ferred you to keep silent about.” 

Peter flushed. “Well, perhaps — just a few little 
things — your adventure with the Carnival fellow, 
and — your opinion of his article. But that’s all, I 
assure you.” 


Her American Daughter 157 

His companion made no comment, and with some 
pangs of conscience Peter moved round to the other 
side and stole a look into her face. 

“Thunder !” he said, “do you mind it as much as 
that? Look here, Miss Ray, I vow I’ll never men- 
tion your name again to a soul, I promise you I — ” 

“Don’t take rash oaths you can’t possibly keep,” 
said the girl quietly, “but in future consider my 
feelings a little more.” 

They walked on in silence for some minutes, and 
then the irrepressible Peter plucked up his courage. 
“Didn’t you say you wanted my advice about some- 
thing ?” 

“On second thoughts,” she announced with mean- 
ing, “I believe Dolores is much the best person to 
apply to.” 

“Oh, no doubt you are wise,” he agreed politely, 
and for the remainder of the walk they discussed 
indifferent matters ; but on their light hearted com- 
radeship a shadow had fallen, as unwonted as the 
dull gray clouds overhead. At the bottom of Ray’s 
resentment was offended dignity. With most of us a 
sense of humor is but a fugitive possession, and the 
heartiest laugh at our own expense is smothered at 
the first suspicion of an echo. On the whole, too, the 
little South Carolinian took herself rather seriously ; 
her opinions, her prejudices, her principles and her 
small proprieties were vital matters, not to be 
lightly discussed by other people. Henceforth, she 
would shelter herself behind a greater reserve ; and 
when, as at present, she stood in need of a confidant, 
she would choose Dolores. 


158 Her American Daughter 

Accordingly, in their next twilight conversation, 
the senora learned the whole story of Ray’s un- 
known admirer — so she naturally considered him, 
and her indignation was great against Francisco. 
Depend upon it, she declared, he had been chatter- 
ing in the cafes, and, as the saying was, where one 
fly had discovered honey others would gather ; Ray 
must leave the whole affair to her and she would 
speak her mind to the young officer, she would bid 
him inform his young friend Don Teodoro What’s- 
his-name that the American senorita was here in 
Madrid for the purpose of studying Velazquez and 
she had no time and no desire to make the acquaint- 
ance of all the idle young popinjays in town! 

But Ray, while she was moved to laughter at the 
wrathful solicitude of Dolores, felt the unconfessed 
half of her perplexities weigh heavier upon her spir- 
its. Hardly a word had she exchanged with Mr. 
Russell since that Sunday night. A painful con- 
straint lay upon both of them, for neither could 
decide whether he or she were most sinned against or 
sinning. 

| 

Gray clouds prevailed throughout the remainder 
of that week, with an icy wind from the Guadarrama 
hills; and on Sunday morning, long before eleven 
o’clock, a tempestuous shower was spattering angrily 
on the window panes. Below, on the wet pavements, 
unfortunate pedestrians struggled helplessly with 
unmanageable umbrellas, while many a treacherous 
capa inflated itself suddenly and spread sailwise to 
the wind, betraying its owner to unpleasant surprises 


Her American Daughter 


159 


in the rear. It was a day to be thankful for even the 
inhospitable brazier: with two small feet on the 
wooden rim of hers, Ray sat all the morning, delud- 
ing herself with the idea that she was writing letters, 
but really squandering the hours in troubled revery ; 
and just on the other side of the thick partition wall 
her neighbor stumbled continually over his, as he 
paced the length of his narrow chamber from the 
door, which opened on the dining room, to his one 
window overlooking the Calle Mayor. But toward 
afternoon, when the rain had slackened somewhat 
and the heavy canopy of gray was lifting slowly, 
Russell’s impatience drove him out into the streets. 

It was growing dusk when he returned, thor- 
oughly refreshed in mind and wearied in limb, with 
a sopping wet umbrella which he decided to put out 
on the balcony to drain and dry. 

As he stepped through his own tall window, he 
perceived that Miss Woodward had opened hers and 
was standing on the threshold, bending over the 
flower pots ranged on the balcony shelf. She had 
thrown a light wrap over her shouldei s and the loose 
ends of it fluttered in the stiff breeze like the wings 
of a frightened bird; but her head was all uncov- 
ered, and, although the rain had ceased entirely, now 
and then a heavy drop splashed down from the eaves 
on the soft coils of her wind blown hair. He was 
sure she had seen him. But neither spoke. 

Down below them, in the Calle Mayor, they could 
descry only a few open umbrellas — like moving blots 
on the pavement — and the shiny wet top of an occa- 
sional cab ; on the opposite side of the street, where 


160 Her American Daughter 

the irregular roof line was brightly relieved against a 
sombre background of retreating clouds, the panes 
of the upper windows glittered blankly like inanimate 
glass eyes ; to right and left of them were rows upon 
rows of iron balconies like their own, but empty. 
They were as isolated as two swallows on a chimney 
top. 

At last the girl turned her head furtively, glanced 
across at her neighbor scarce six feet away, and 
bowed. 

“Good evening, Miss Woodward !” he quickly 
responded. 

“Good evening,’' said she. “You were more ven- 
turesome than I,” and she glanced at his umbrella. 

“Yes, I had quite a tussle with the elements, but I 
enjoyed it.” There was a little pause, and then he 
added : “The rain seems to have purged the gutters 
of the last of the Carnival confetti.” 

Ray smiled at him with arch intent. “I am very 
glad,” said she. 

He was quick to catch her meaning and hinted: 
“They had their day !” 

“A brief one and ill timed,” she answered inno- 
cently. “They are best forgotten. Spain is in no 
Carnival mood at present ; nor — ” her voice died to 
a tiny whisper but the wind tossed it to him 
“—am I.” 

“Ah, yes,” he said, “after Carnival comes Lent.” 

“And penitence?” she queried softly, her fingers 
busy amid the wet geranium leaves, her head 
drooped so low that only the curve of a flushed cheek 
was visible from the adjoining balcony. 


Her American Daughter 


161 


“Only for those who . . . have offended,” 

was the answer. 

“We are all miserable sinners,” she murmured 
humbly. 

“True,” sighed he. “I have already ordered me a 
suit of sackcloth.” 

“Really?” and then, like the swift gleam of a 
brook beneath a bank of willows, a laughing gray 
eye flashed at him from under sweeping lashes. 
“Poor you !” she bubbled, lifting her head high. If 
he meant to assume the penitential pose, she must 
take a different attitude or there would be no one to 
give absolution. “Look!” she cried, pointing over 
the roofs to a row of attic windows that glimmered 
ruddily in the dying light. “The sun must be setting 
red — so the new week will come in under clear skies 
to a clean world, like ... a fresh page 
turned !” and nodding blithely, she stepped back out 
of sight and closed the window. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Madrid, February 25th, 1896. 
My Dear Louise : — 

I have arrived at the conclusion that, while second 
thoughts are very much better than first impulses 
when it comes to deciding upon a line of action , in 
our estimate of character (I speak as a woman!) 
there is nothing better than a primary impression — 
the opinion that falls involuntarily from our lips 
when we brush elbows with a stranger. To illus- 
trate, here are Mrs. Dering and Mr. Russell. When 
you have finished reading this letter you will better 
appreciate my earlier comments on the former. As 
far as the author is concerned, I began by liking 
him, and now I am disposed to feel more charity for 
his offenses. Dolores calls him “hombre de buena 
capa,” and I say the cloak of his exceeding gentle- 
manliness would cover a multitude of sins. 

Night before last, Mrs. Stafford, Peter and I went 
to call on Mrs. Dering. She was charming, abso- 
lutely charming; and her aunt, Mrs. Ward, whom I 
met then for the first time, is a sweet, unselfish 
woman — the kind of person who, whatever her past 
might have been, claims no place now in life but that 
of background. She reminds me of a certain bit of 


Her American Daughter 163 

Moorish drapery (concerning which you shall 
presently hear a tale of woe!) mellow toned and 
harmonious, its silken surface broidered over in 
graceful lines and pleasing hues. You feel her qual- 
ity at once, her ideas although conventionalized have 
now and then a certain freedom and originality ; but 
time has dulled the colors, rubbed the threads and 
blurred the pattern ; she asserts herself no more. Her 
presence, however, adds a decided value to the 
fresher charms of Mrs. Dering. 

As a matter of course, Peter’s fancy has been 
enslaved by the latter, — “swell girls,” you must 
know, are his admiration. And really, I can under- 
stand his feeling. We art students, absorbed in the 
pursuit of beauty, are so apt to neglect it in our- 
selves. Of course I have a woman’s fondness for 
pretty clothes, and if I had to choose in cold blood 
between a new spring hat and a tempting bit of 
bric-a-brac, I think the hat would carry the day; 
but if economy at the milliner’s would enable me to 
gratify my greed as a collector, I should not hesitate 
to practice it — selfishly, perhaps, for no doubt it 
would be more public spirited to place the thing of 
beauty on my head where it could be a joy to all 
beholders instead of hiding it away in my trunk 
against the happy day when I set up my own little 
studio in Paris. 

However, as I was saying, I quite sympathized 
with Peter’s enthusiasm when he wondered what 
artist could possibly paint anything more successful 
as a picture than Mrs. Dering was that night. She 
attracted me so much that, for a time, I lost sight 


164 .Her American Daughter 

of my first impression; but perhaps you have not 
forgotten what I wrote you after meeting her at the 
American Minister’s. You shall judge now whether 
I have returned to that opinion. 

She had promised to join our party for a bric-a- 
brac hunt in the Rastro, and Peter and I called for 
her after our noon meal today. 

I think I have never yet described to you that 
quaint old market place in the oldest corner of the 
city. It is really nothing more than a sudden widen- 
ing of the ill paved street which straggles gently 
down a slope and gives up its dusty length, for 
about two hundred yards, to the booths and sheds 
and tables and piteous heaps of the dealers in old 
things. But what a picture it makes! Vivid blue 
skies tapering down between irregular lines of old 
tiled roofs and stretches of crumbling wall ; yellow 
sunbeams slanting in, and on the dusty cobble stones 
alternate blocks of orange light and purple shadow ; 
swarms of human beings meanly clad yet not un- 
lovely, because with all of them the color instinct is 
so strong, and not a dingy figure there of man or 
woman but wears some bit of brightness — a red ker- 
chief on the head or at the throat, a gay plaid shawl 
across the shoulders or a little crochetted wrap with 
a fringe of worsted balls that droops becomingly 
around a pretty face. And in the open street are 
the booths and tables, laden with rubbish of all sorts 
and colors. Cracked and dusty glassware — that 
glitters nevertheless when a sunbeam falls upon it; 
half worn articles of clothing; old tinware, rusty 
nails and keys — keys for every lock invented ; knives 


Her American Daughter 


165 


and daggers of every shape and description; old 
brasses — some of them genuine antiques ; heaps and 
heaps of tattered books, of rags and papers: the 
flotsam of a seething city cast up here for a time, 
but ere long to be sought for again at some poor 
wretch’s need and swept back into the current! Who 
knows but some of these old household goods may 
not return here again and again before they fall to 
pieces. A death, a little extra pinch of want, the 
hegira of a family, and then . . . Sweep out 

the attic chamber or the cellar room, pull down the 
lares and penates, gather the odds and ends to- 
gether and trundle them off to the Rastro tables ! 

Some time ago, Mr. Stafford discovered, in one of 
the shops that open on this street, an old carved 
frame that would exactly fit the picture he has 
painted for the Salon; it needed but a touch of fresh 
gold leaf to be as good as new — and very much 
cheaper, a vital consideration for an impecunious 
artist. As it was, the price would be a heavy tax on 
their slender income, but the dealer had announced 
his ultimatum and the purchase was to be concluded 
this afternoon. 

Most of our studio belongings were obtained here 
in the Rastro shops, which offer every conceivable 
kind of second hand furniture, from deal tables and 
rush bottom chairs to marquetry and carvedj 
mahogany. 

The shop to which Mr. Stafford led us, this after- 
noon, is the most enticing of all. The proprietor, 
Don Paquito, is a thin little brown-faced man with 
twinkling eyes, happy natured, and liberal enough 


166 


Her American Daughter 


when his wife is out of hearing. Doha Jesusa is 
stout and bland, with sleek brown braids and large 
gold ear-rings; and when she stands with hands on 
hips and shakes her head till the ear-rings rattle, 
there is nothing to be done but pay her price — or 
go your way. But it is so hard to tear oneself away ! 
If I have ever sighed to be rich it was when under 
the spell of a dealer in antiquities. 

An hour slipped by, and our party became scat- 
tered : Peter disappeared and the Staffords also ; 
Mr. Russell was just outside the door, poring over 
a stack of musty volumes heaped upon the dirty 
pavement; Mrs. Dering and Doha Jesusa were bar- 
gaining over some rich old lace, — and the moment 
for which I had been patiently waiting arrived at 
last. 

Under a pile of old Carnival costumes, between 
a dingy curtain and a tarnished altar cloth, was a 
piece of Moorish embroidery that had tempted me 
for days. I could see the corner of it peeping out, 
and I begged Don Paquito to take it down for me. 
He did so, and together we unfolded it. It was 
about two yards long and wider still; soft old silk 
of a dull, indescribable blue with a singularly free 
and graceful pattern embroidered in pale yellow, old 
rose, purple and dead green. I . feasted my eyes for 
a moment and then turned appealingly to the amiable 
little dealer. “And the price, Don Paquito, is it still 
the same ?” 

“Ten duros, senorita.” 

“That is a great sum,” I murmured, wondering at 
the same time what economies it would entail. — And 


Her American Daughter 


167 


then, Louise, sad to relate, I departed from my 
ancestral traditions — I stooped to drive a bargain! 
“Say eight duros, amigo, and I will buy it of you.” 

Don Paquito looked toward his wife and shook 
his head. I took out my purse and began to count the 
silver. “Eight duros and a half, senorita, and it is 
yours,” he relented then. 

“Agreed,” said I, but not having the amount in 
change I placed in his hand a paper note. He went 
away to the till, and just at that moment (O Sisera, 
the stars in their courses fought against me too!) 
Doha Jesusa approached with Mrs. Dering and the 
latter cried out in ecstacy over my purchase. 

“How much is this?” she demanded. 

“I have already bought it,” I replied, folding it 
jealously beneath her envious eyes. 

The dealer’s wife waylaid him on his return. 
“What have you sold this for, Paquito ?” 

He confessed. 

“Did I not say it was to be ten duros?” she 
exclaimed indignantly. “You have sacrificed it for 
so much less ?” 

“/ would have given ten duros willingly,” cried 
Mrs. Dering. “It is exquisite — I have never seen the 
like!” and she deliberately drew the stuff from my 
hands. 

Doha Jesusa grew firm. “Ten duros is the price,” 
she said, and laid her hands upon her hips. 

“Here!” cried Mrs. Dering, opening her pocket 
book in haste. 

Don Paquito became excited. “But Jesusa mia, 
the little senorita must have the preference !” 


168 ; Her American Daughter 

I realized that I had one friend at court, and reck- 
lessly exclaimed: “Ten duros, caballero,” 

“Twelve 1” said Mrs. Dering. 

My pride was up. “Twelve,” I repeated. 

“Fifteen !” said Mrs. Dering. 

What matter if I went shoeless or hatless all the 
spring ! Inarticulate now, I only nodded my head at 
Don Paquito. 

A delicate flush rose in Mrs. Dering’s pretty 
cheeks, she turned to me in wonder at my stupidity. 
“I will give twenty, then — or more if necessary. 
Isn’t it rather absurd to keep on running up the 
price this way?” 

There was a hot lump in my throat as I turned 
away from her. Don Paquito followed me, with his 
eyes full of sympathy, and thrusting my money back 
into my hands declared : “It is Jesusa, senorita. I 
can do nothing — nothing !” 

Peter returned to us just as Mrs. Dering concluded 
her purchase. “Why, Miss Ray,” he said, “how’s 
this ? I thought that Moorish stuff was your particu- 
lar find. Didn’t you mean to buy it ?” 

“Mrs. Dering out bid me,” I whispered. 

He opened wide his blue eyes. “You don’t tell 
me!” he exclaimed. “What a shabby trick to play!” 

“Sh!” I said rebukingly, and frowned him into 
silence — but I could have positively hugged the boy 
for his indignation ! 

We called in our scattered party and recounted our 
various purchases. Mr. Stafford had secured his 
frame; Mrs. Stafford — provident soul — had bought 
two clean old sheets to cut up into paint rags ; Peter’s 


Her American Daughter 


169 


pockets bulged with murderous weapons — Spanish 
daggers, sharp and keen, and Moorish knives like 
over grown razors ; Mr. Russell, in turning over the 
heaps of tattered volumes, had discovered an ancient 
Cautioner o that well repaid him for the trouble ; Mrs. 
Dering displayed yards of old lace, a rosary of coral 
and silver — and my lost, lamented drapery ! As for 
me, I had nothing at all ; my afternoon had not been 
a success, and I felt rather depressed in spirit. 

When we left Don Paquito’s door the Rastro tables 
were being cleared for the night; there was quite a 
stir among the open booths as the goods and chattels 
were stored away in safer quarters. Peter and I walk- 
ed on ahead, the Staffords followed and Mrs. Der- 
ing brought up the rear with Mr. Russell. I taxed 
Peter with his desertion of our guest, but he shrugged 
his shoulders protestingly. “She shook me!” he 
declared with elaborate indifference. So Mr. Rus- 
sell was allowed to conduct the lady back to her hotel. 

Later on, when he rejoined us at the dinner table, 
he mentioned the fact that she intended to leave Mad- 
rid next week for Cordova, Granada and other points 
in the south of Spain. I fancy that he does not alto- 
gether approve this plan or hers, in view of the pres- 
ent political situation. You probably understand this 
better than I, as we see no American newspapers now 
but the Paris edition of the Herald — and that very 
irregularly. But, as we have been treated by the 
Spaniards with such perfect courtesy, I can see no 
objection to the two ladies traveling alone — and I 
shall not be sorry to say goodbye to Mrs. Dering ! 


CHAPTER XV 


“Who’s seen a newspaper this morning?” de- 
manded Peter, at lunch time on the following Sun- 
day; he gesticulated with a folded copy of El Pais , 
and wore the face of one who had something to 
communicate. “Who knows what’s up ?” 

“I’ve just returned from the Legation, where I 
heard the news,” said Mr. Russell, “probably a later 
and more accurate account than you could obtain 
from a Spanish paper — and a populist one at that.” 

“Then give us your version, do!” besought the 
boy, shaking out the ink besmeared sheet in his hand, 
“for I’ve been at this all the morning, and the only 
thing I’ve discovered so far is that Spain — or the 
editor — is hopping mad about something and is 
taking it out in abusing the ‘jingoismo’ of Yankees 
in general and some ‘senador yankee’ in particular. 
Will you please observe the border that surrounds 
this page — letters an inch high and black as a chim- 
ney sweep: VIVA ESPANA CON HONOR!— 
Who’s been hurting its little feelings?” 

Russell glanced over the lad’s shoulder to where 
Mr. Stafford waited in the background, gravely 
expectant. 

“Well?” the latter questioned. 

“A concurrent resolution was passed yesterday — 
the news has just been cabled.” 


Her American Daughter 


171 


Ray looked up intelligently, but Mrs. Stafford 
turned a blankly inquiring face toward her husband. 
“Do be more explicit,” she implored. “I haven’t 
taken in the situation yet.” 

Russell bent to her pleasantly. “Our two Houses 
of Congress have declared their opinion that a condi- 
tion of public war exists between the government of 
Spain and the people of Cuba, and have resolved, 
moreover, that the United States should recognize 
the Cubans as a belligerent people struggling for 
their independence.” 

“Well, I’m sure,” she exclaimed, “I thought 
everybody recognized that long ago — they’ve been 
very belligerent for quite a while.” 

“My dear Emma — ” began Mr. Stafford, but the 
author patiently continued his explanation : 

“Such a step, however, on the part of a powerful 
neighbor would greatly affect the situation. If 
President Cleveland endorses the action of Congress, 
the Cubans will find themselves in a much stronger 
position than they have heretofore occupied as insur- 
gents rebelling against constituted authority.” 

“I say though,” Peter interrupted, “your news 
only arrived this morning, and no doubt it will add 
life to the situation ; but this sheet went to press last 
night, and from what I gather here ‘el senador 
yankee,’ Mr. Somebody-or-other, .has already been 
making remarks that Spain doesn’t want to swallow. 
Please translate us this paragraph — ” and he passed 
the paper down the table. “Do you find anything in 
that so very insulting to her honor?” 


172 


Her American Daughter 


Russell read it first in silence. “It is possible,” he 
said, “that in the original English this speech may 
have been differently worded, but this version could 
hardly fail to touch Spain’s most vulnerable point — 
her pride. I will translate literally. 

“ ‘If the action which we propose to take will not 
free the island from the clutches of Spain, our next 
step will — or, if not the next, then the one which will 
follow that. And Cuba will raise herself upon the 
pedestal of the nations, free, sovereign and independ- 
ent. Spain knows it. But she would prefer to lose 
Cuba at the point of the sword in an encounter with 
the United States, rather than cede her to us for 
money or grant independence to the Cubans. Spain 
would be very grateful to us if we should take it at 
the point of the sword. Very well, then, our duty is 
to unsheathe the weapon, lay it on the table and say 
to her: If you wish it, take it!’ ” 

“This looks like war,” said Mr. Stafford. 

The author shook his head dubiously. “And yet, 
from what I heard at the Legation, that does not 
seem to be their opinion. But everything depends 
upon the President’s course.” 

“Well, Emma,” sighed the artist, turning to his 
wife, “it’s a very selfish way to look at it, but I’m 
afraid this knocks our little program into a cocked 
hat. No Holy Week in Seville for us!” 

“Why so ?” asked Russell, “I can’t imagine why it 
should make any difference to you. Artists are privi- 
leged beings ; even in case of war I should think you 
would be safe and unmolested.” 


Her American Daughter 


173 


But Mr. Stafford, not caring to explain how 
impossible it would be for them to exist if cut off for 
any length of time from communication with the 
American dealers on whom they depended chiefly 
for their support, made no reply. 

The newspaper, when Russell laid it aside, had 
been taken up by Ray ; and now she broke out with 
a little exclamation: “I never expected to see the 
time when Yankee would be a generic name for all 
citizens of the United States! But when it comes 
to international compliments I think the Spaniards 
are our equals. Have you read all this ?” 

“Do you mean,” asked Russell rather constrain- 
edly, “that to class you with Yankees is an affront?” 

“Viva South Carolina con honor!” exclaimed a 
mischievous voice at her elbow. 

“Peter, you great goose, be silent ! Suppose either 
of our Spanish friends were to come in suddenly 
and hear you !” chided the girl with rising color, then 
turning her gray eyes on the author she quickly 
replied : “I am sure I said nothing that could be so 
interpreted. If you will glance down that column 
you will see that the word Yankee is usually coupled 
with offensive epithets. And the concluding para- 
graph is a boastful assertion that Spain would spend, 
if necessary, her last dollar in defense of her national 
honor, incomprehensible as such a course would be 
to a people that worships the golden calf ” 

The look with which Russell heard this explana- 
tion so warmly implored her pardon for his miscon- 
struction of her previous remark that her eyes invol- 
untarily fell beneath it. In the pause that followed, 


174 


Her American Daughter 


Mr. Stafford regretted that he had not seen for sev- 
eral days the Paris Edition of the New York 
Herald . 

“My latest copy is at your service,” the author 
said, “but it is two — three days old by now. I would 
like to see the Heraldo or the Correspondencia. This 
populist sheet doesn’t reflect the sentiments of the 
more educated and conservative citizens.” 

“May be not !” cried Peter, “but when there’s a row 
it’s not usually the educated and conservative class 
that makes it. The rabble is reading El Pais at this 
minute. Every portero, every torero, all the old 
guards in the gallery — in fact, one fourth of the city 
— reads nothing else.” 

“True,” commented Russell thoughtfully. “Is that 
why you always buy it, Harding? It’s not a bad 
idea to keep a finger on the pulse of the mob.” 

Ray laughed then, and Peter blushed. “Their 
office is just across the way,” said the boy, and threw 
an appealing glance at his young comrade — but all 
in vain. 

“My innings!” she exclaimed with relish. “You 
must know, friends, that Don Pedro’s little pin girl 
has gone into the newspaper business 
for which he furnished the capital, pledging himself 
to buy his daily paper from her on condition that 
he is not expected to purchase any more pins.” 

“Was forced to do it in self defense,” muttered 
Peter from behind his napkin. “Got stuck every 
day — literally as well as figuratively.” 

“But it was so convenient for me,” said Ray, bow- 
ing to the two Spaniards whose entrance at that 


Her American Daughter 175 

moment precluded any further reference to the 
political situation. “When I bought my daily bou- 
tonniere I always knew where to turn for a pin.” 

“You must be very fond of violets,” observed the 
author, lowering his voice as he bent toward her. “I 
notice you always wear a bunch of those pale blue 
ones that grow wild in the Retiro. But they are 
quite scentless, aren’t they ?” 

“Not entirely so. There is a sweet freshness 
about them, a woodsy odor that makes me think of 
home and my childhood. We always spent the Eas- 
ter holidays on a rice plantation in the tide-water 
country,” for the life of her she couldn’t resist a 
challenging smile, “the country, you know, of 
cypress and cedar, of laurel and live-oak, of Spanish 
bayonets and long gray moss. In springtime the 
woods there are hung with yellow jessamine, and 
the ground is covered with wild white lilies and big 
blue violets like these.” 

It occurred to Russell, just then, that Mrs. Dering 
also wore violets very frequently; but somehow on 
her they became merely the floral accessories of her 
costume. With Miss Woodward it was different; 
she bent her fresh young face to the pale hued blos- 
soms on her bosom with something of the tender- 
ness with which one caresses the cheek of a little 
child. She was proposing now to the Staffords that 
they should all spend the afternoon in the Retiro, 
where the breath of the coming spring would be 
soonest felt, and the idea rather appealed to Russell ; 
he regretted that a promise to call on some of his 


176 


Her American Daughter 


Spanish friends would prevent his joining them. 
Peter also declined on the plea of an engagement 
with Don Francisco to attend the bull fight. 

“You’ll have to go sometime yourself, Miss Ray,” 
he urged her privately after lunch. “It’s the great- 
est show on earth, and the artistic effect — the color 
and all that — makes you forget about the disgusting 
cruelty. We’ll have to make up a party sometime 
and take you along. Francisco and I are hardly 
chaperons enough, eh? — Say, how do you like my 
new sombrero — quite Spanish, isn’t it?” and he 
twirled a wide gray felt on the tip of his finger. 

“If it didn’t make you look so much more like a 
cherub, you’d be the image of a bull fighter.” 

“Think so really ? I imagined it was rather good 
form — but everything 'torero’ is tip-top style, so it’s 
all right. Doesn’t Francisco look a swell in his 
capa? If it wasn’t so late in the season I’d buy one 
myself. Overcoats are not to be named in the same 
day with them ; they give a fellow so much more of 
an air, or — as the natives say — ‘se va mas gar- 
boso !’ ” 

The memory of the boy’s bright face as he waved 
goodbye to them, remained with Ray all the after- 
noon. There was something so fresh and clean 
about Peter. She wondered, with sisterly anxiety, if 
a year or two of bohemian Paris would rob his clear 
blue eyes of any of their happy straightforwardness. 
“I hope not,” she thought earnestly, “I do hope not ! 

But for every successful artist that Paris 
makes, I wonder how many young men she mars ?” 


Her American Daughter 177 

It was rather dull now, going without him; he 
would have lent to their expedition a holiday spirit 
that joyed in everything. The Staffords were not 
enlivening companions ; they were people who never 
left their cares behind. The wife’s talk flowed on 
as usual in gentle platitudes, but her cheerfulness 
was sadly forced and affected one with a sense of 
strain, like a song pitched in too high a key; and 
the artist was utterly silent, studying with hollow- 
eyed concentration every street vista, every pictur- 
esque figure in the moving mass of pedestrians, as 
though his fingers itched to hold a brush and trans- 
fer the effect to canvas. Of late he had been posi- 
tively obsessed with the desire to work; his brain 
never rested, and under the silky ripples of his long 
brown beard his face grew thinner daily. Ray was 
struck by the hot intentness of his gaze as the three 
of them waited by the lamp-post on the Puerta del 
Sol, for the leisurely street car that was to convey 
them to the park. “I wonder,” she thought pity- 
ingly, “if it ever occurs to him that this lovely world 
was created for other than a painter’s uses ! He looks 
at high heaven as though it were a frescoed ceiling 
and detects the brush marks in the clouds !” 

Just then the yellow car, with its team of lazy 
mules, came jangling up and halted ; the trio climbed 
in, the conductor gathered their fares, delivering to 
each a slip of green paper by way of receipt, and 
retired to the front platform to await the coming of 
more passengers. The long ears of the mules 
drooped sleepily in the afternoon sunlight, and at 
the door the driver held forth to his companion in a 


178 Her American Daughter 

drowsy monologue. Inside, the Staffords leaned 
back in their seats, silent and thoughtful ; and Ray, 
smothering a yawn, fell to studying the advertise- 
ments in the car windows, to each one of which was 
affixed the war tax of a five centimo stamp. But 
finally, with jerk and jangle, the car moved off down 
the Alcala. 

Through this street lay their daily route to the 
studio; and now as they passed the handsome 
Equitable building, that displayed over its door, in 
glittering gold leaf, the American coat-of-arms, 
Ray gave a smiling thought to Peter — who regu- 
larly doffed his hat to the eagle with what he called 
“a patriotic thrill !” 

A few blocks further on, they forsook the car and 
entered the great iron gate of the park. 

With its wide squares and spacious avenues, its 
open vistas and long perspectives, Madrid has no 
lack of breathing places; but the Retiro is a gen- 
erous expanse of country clasped in the city’s arms 
— inexpressibly dear to the hearts of all its people. 

Just within the gateway, one meets always a throng 
of pretty nursemaids and babies, of staid duennas 
with little boys and bigger girls, of young mothers 
— and fathers, too — out with the children for a 
promenade. On either side of the broad walk are 
stone benches, placed at intervals, where on dry and 
pleasant days the mothers and nurses may sit and 
gossip while their charges romp and play together 
on the turf behind. There are no orders to Keep off 
the Grass in the Retiro — Ray noted this with satis- 
faction. True, there was not much grass at this 


Her American Daughter 179 

season to be preserved : only here and there, among 
the fallen leaves, were patches of tender green ; and 
farther off, under the bare branches of the chestnut 
trees, away from the more frequented walks and the 
constant trampling of little feet, the brown mould 
was purpled faintly with wild violets. 

Our three Americans wandered slowly down the 
long central avenue — where statues of former kings 
and queens of Spain smile on the populace in calm 
unconsciousness of any wrongs they may have per- 
petrated during life. On the rows of motionless fig- 
ures the afternoon sunlight was glistening whitely, 
and beside each pedestal a foreshortened shadow fell 
in a dark blot upon the turf. Ray walked a few 
paces behind the artist and his wife, who were talk- 
ing of their own plans and the changes they would 
be forced to make if the political outlook became 
more threatening. 

The girl would have shut her ears to it all. It 
was so sweet and still in these peaceful paths ; the 
air was soft on her cheek, and against the clear blue 
sky she could plainly see, on the bare limbs of the 
chestnuts meeting overhead, the buds just beginning 
to swell. It was the first of March, she thought, the 
first day of the first month of spring. “Spring!” she 
repeated, her gray eyes filling, “and Timrod wrote 
of her 


‘Lifting her bloody daisies up to God!’ 

Does history always repeat itself? Must every gen- 
eration drink of the same cup?” 


180 Her American Daughter 

Mr. Stafford was saying: “Of course, Emma, if 
war is declared, we will go direct to Paris.” 

But it was impossible! thought Ray; and for- 
getting the bitter struggle that was going on across 
the water in the island where Spain's banner was 
flying still, knowing little or nothing of the starving 
women and children, and the horrors of Weyler’s 
campaign, she quoted softly to herself: 

“Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime 
With such a blessed time!” 

and she listened to the distant echoes of babies’ 
laughter, and smiled as she perceived, in the corner 
of a hedge all powdered with delicate green, a man- 
tilla keeping tryst with a sombrero. 

The shadows had lengthened greatly when Mr. 
Stafford proposed to turn, and by this time they had 
skirted the little lake and reached the northern corner 
of the park. 

“Let us go out by the nearest gate and find a cab,” 
suggested Ray. “The cars are always ‘Completo’ at 
this hour.” 

She forgot, however, that — it being Sunday after- 
noon — every cochero had gone to the bull ring in the 
certainty of getting a fare. Not an empty cab was 
in sight, but a long procession of vehicles rumbled 
homeward from the Circus: carriages first, with 
well groomed horses and smart liveried coachmen; 
hired broughams of fairly presentable appearance, 
but robbed of all style by the tell tale number on the 
driver’s seat ; cabs, rather less pretentious, but 
cheap enough at two pesetas for the trip. Faster 


Her American Daughter 


181 


and faster they came, and, wherever they passed, 
the light dust, beaten by hoof and wheel, rose up in 
clouds. 

“What a pity we crossed the street!” exclaimed 
Mr. Stafford, after they had looked on at the rolling 
torrent for fully ten minutes without espying a 
single unoccupied vehicle. “Shall we venture back 
and return the way we came?” 

His wife looked nervous. “Let us wait,” she 
said. 

“Yes, do !” cried Ray, “it’s an interesting sight — 
and perhaps some belated cochero at the end of the 
procession may be glad to stop for us.” 

The better class of vehicles had all passed now, but 
cabs and wagons rattled by at frantic speed, the 
drivers cracking their whips and cheering loudly. 
The air was full of noisy cries and shrill whistling 
sounds that had rather a sinister effect. And the 
rabble was arriving — the crowd that in the Circus 
sits just behind the barrier, where the seats are 
cheapest and the odor of blood freshly spilled rises 
warm in their nostrils. Down each side of the street 
they came afoot, with shambling gait and swing- 
ing arms, and now and then a hoarse murmur rose 
and swelled into a shout. 

The artist, waiting patiently on the sidewalk with 
two women to be cared for, suddenly bent forward 
and listened ; then, taking his wife’s arm, he 
declared: “We must go back to the park at once! 
Follow me, Miss Ray!” 

She wondered how they were to cross in the path 
of those frantic teams, but followed obediently till 


182 Her American Daughter 

the middle of the street was reached. And there a 
wild stage, two-decked, crowded fore and aft with 
yelling demons and careening like a ship at sea, the 
team of eight frightened mules galloping at full 
speed, thundered down upon them. 

Right in its path an old man stood, a familiar fig- 
ure in a weatherbeaten cloak stained here and there to 
mellow shades of olive green. He waved his shabby 
stick in tremulous warning to the reckless driver, 
faltered then, and turning desperately, missed the 
cruel hoofs by one providential instant ; but the fore- 
most wheel striking him sharply, he staggered and 
fell prostrate at Ray’s feet. 

Mr. Stafford had borne the half senseless woman 
in his arms to safety on the opposite pavement when 
the young art student, arrested by that most piteous 
of all sights on earth — gray hairs lying in the dust — 
seized the old model with two slender nervous hands 
and dragged him backward to the nearer sidewalk. 
He was unhurt but stupefied, and though Ray helped 
him to his feet and thrust his stick between his 
knotted fingers, his feeble limbs refused to bear his 
weight and he sank down again upon a curbstone, 
waeging his gray beard in senile imbecility and mut- 
tering : “Virgen Maria ! Madre de mi Dios !” 

Distractedly, Ray turned from him to see, in a 
cab racing by, two faces she knew well. “Peter!” 
she called, “Peter !” But her voice was drowned by 
the rattling wheels, the cracking whips, the scream- 
ing whistles. Leaving the old man still cowering 
on the curbstone, she made a brave effort to rejoin 
the Staffords. Twice, three times, she essayed the 


Her American Daughter 


183 


crossing, only to be driven back each time in honest 
fear; then, realizing that the torrent of vehicles 
must soon run dry, she waited eagerly, straining her 
eyes for a glimpse of the two friends on the other 
side. 

But the black stream on the pavement was also 
pouring down. Above the noise of hoofs and wheels 
the hoarse murmur swelled again — nearer this time, 
much nearer — and a surly voice at her elbow echoed 
it lustily : 

“To the house of the Yankee ! To the house of 
the Yankee !” 

Poised for flight on the pavement’s edge, Ray 
heard it — and divined the temper of the mob. Too 
late she sped into the street. The rabble was there 
before her. It clung to the hindmost vehicles, it 
trailed in the wake of the wheels. 

“To the house of the Yankee! Viva Espaha!” 

From sidewalk to sidewalk, from wall to wall, it 
spread in an angry tide; muttering and cursing, it 
surged about the unprotected girl and swept her 
along against her will. Dark faces, lowering brows, 
blasphemous lips surrounded her ; menacing arms 
were lifted high, heavy stones were clutched vindict- 
ively in ugly fingers ; she was half suffocated by the 
fervid breaths in that mass of brutalized humanity. 
On went the mob, heedless of the slight figure almost 
swooning in the thick of it. 

“To the house of the Yankee!” it roared, and 
swirling angrily at the corner hurled itself into the 
Calle Serrano. 

“Down with the Americans! Viva Espaha con 
honor!” 


CHAPTER XVI 


Alarmed by the heavy trampling and the ominous 
murmurs of the mob without, all the residents of the 
Calle Serrano had crowded to their windows; and, 
from one of the second story balconies of a hand- 
some house near the corner, an anxious group of 
ladies and gentlemen watched the progress of that 
black current toward the home of the American 
Minister. 

“Have but a little patience, caballero — the police 
will arrive in a moment. It is impossible that any 
outrage will be permitted — quite impossible !” so a 
tall, distinguished Spaniard with silver gray hair 
declared emphatically to his immediate neighbor, 
whose sinewy young hands were tightly clenched 
upon the iron railing, and whose eyes flashed indig- 
nation. 

“Si, Senor Rosail, they are coming — they are 
coming now ! I hear the hoof beats !” 

“Gently, gently, Consuelo,” murmured a sweet 
faced senora to the very pretty little brunette at her 
side. “But they do arrive — I hear them also.” 

So did Russell, and with a sigh of infinite relief 
he turned to the first speaker and smiled apologetic- 
ally. “I suppose, at the worst, they would have 


Her American Daughter 


185 


smashed only a few window panes. But you must 
admit, Don Rafael, that I could hardly be expected 
to look on calmly. ,, 

“You could have done nothing but perhaps get 
yourself killed, which would have been infinitely 
worse than the breaking of a few panes of glass,” 
interposed the Spanish lady; and then the thud of 
the hoofs grew unmistakably near and a company 
of the city’s mounted police galloped down in the 
face of the advancing mob. 

Russell leaned forward again over the railing, and 
in the shallow recess of a doorway opposite he espied 
for the first time a slender shrinking figure and a 
small white terrified face. 

How he reached the street he never knew, but a 
moment later he was struggling in the surly stream, 
fighting his way to the opposite pavement. Soon, 
very soon — though to him the interval seemed end- 
less — he had gained her side and had caught the 
outstretched hands in his. Meanwhile the black drift, 
checked in its onward course, was falling back upon 
itself, and, as the tide still poured in from the rear, 
the pressure in the congested street was suffocating 
— crushing. Russell, thanking Heaven for his own 
young strength and his stalwart frame, thrust the 
girl back into the shallow doorway and planted him- 
self before it with an arm braced firmly against 
either side. Then, mindful of the ebbing blood in 
the wax-white cheeks so close to his, he smiled at 
her. 

“You seem to have rather a predilection for street 
riots, Miss Ray !” 


186 


Her American Daughter 


A faint response flickered on her lips and went 
out suddenly as a sharp volley of shots cracked amid 
the turmoil. 

“Blank cartridges, no doubt,” was his prompt 
assurance. “Don’t be alarmed, it will be all over in 
a moment.” 

“I’m not frightened — now ” she honestly 
declared, and the color crept back into her face and 
lips. Close against the wall she leaned with clasped 
hands and heaving bosom, and over her bent the 
young man, bareheaded and disheveled, until with 
the wavering and breaking of the intimidated rabble 
the pressure behind him was somewhat lessened; 
then, with his left hand about her waist, his right 
cleaving a passage, he regained the open doorway on 
the other side of the street where his friend, Don 
Rafael de Tolosa, met them warmly and full of a 
deep concern for the American girl. 

With the consciousness of safety, a strange giddi- 
ness had overtaken her. Afterward, she recollected 
having felt the cold smoothness of a polished stair 
rail, and a child’s warm fingers entwined in hers; 
but of what was said to her, or of how she climbed 
the carpeted steps to the floor above, her memory 
retained no record. 

On the upper landing, a Madonna-like counte- 
nance separated itself from a cluster of kindly solici- 
tous faces, and she went to meet it, led by the child’s 
warm fingers. A door opened to receive her, a softly 
padded chair seemed to approach of its own accord, 
a voice murmured, “Pobrecita!” and then she was 
afloat amid darkness and infinite space. 


Her American Daughter 187 

But soon a throng of wavering, nebulous ideas 
gathered into a concrete impression of gentle minis- 
trations. A pungent odor pervaded the atmosphere, 
a soft hand was bathing the bruised place on her 
temple where she remembered to have felt, in some 
horrible past, the cruel contact of a roughly plastered 
wall. And kneeling at her feet was a gypsy of 
a child who regarded her with round-eyed con- 
sternation. 

Ray sat up quickly, with a shocked fear lest she 
had been misbehaving, and Senora de Tolosa smiled 
encouragement, despatching the twelve-year-old 
Consuelo with a reassuring message to the anxious 
group collected at the door. A white aproned maid 
was deftly restoring the crushed ribbons of her hat 
to their aforetime air of dignified coquetry; and, 
amid little feminine cries of commiseration and 
regret, the storm tossed refugee preened all her 
ruffled plumage and soon declared herself sufficiently 
composed in spirit to meet the senora’s other guests 
in the adjoining room. 

There were about eight or ten of these grouped 
familiarly in the handsomely appointed but some- 
what formal sala, where most of the furnishings 
impressed Ray as being survivals of various ances- 
tral tastes rather than the deliberate selection of 
their present possessors. As in many an old Charles- 
ton home, she noted the reverential enshrinement of 
old miniatures and curios in the inlaid cabinets that 
were half invisible against the darkly papered wall, 
and the air of dignified retirement from active ser- 
vice — or profane uses — with which several carved 


188 


Her American Daughter 


and gilded chairs and sofas ranged themselves down 
each side of the long apartment. It was from houses 
such as this that the choicest spoils of the Rastro had 
descended. 

The guests were gathered in a semicircle before 
the inevitable tall French window, and a noiseless 
waiter was serving them with hot chocolate, cloy- 
ingly sweet and thick as cream. 

Ray accepted a cup and a chair at Russell's side, 
where she at once became the centre of observation, 
and was forced to relate the chain of circumstances 
which had involved her in the afternoon's excite- 
ment. On her other hand was a young captain of 
the Guards whom her hostess had introduced as Don 
Enrique de Silvela, and the American girl decided 
that he was the most attractive Spaniard of her 
acquaintance. His gallantry differed from that of 
Don Francisco in that it was tempered by intelli- 
gence, and he had an ease of manner that was lack- 
ing in Don Antonio — who was essentially a man of 
affairs. She liked his voice and his face, and espe- 
cially his earnest assurances that the outbreak of the 
rabble was no reflection of the sentiments of the 
better classes in Madrid. 

“We desire nothing more earnestly, senorita," he 
said in very correct English, “than the continuance 
of our friendly relations with your government — 
which, up to the present, has exhibited great for- 
bearance; for it is to be understood that a war at 
your very doors must be disturbing and incon- 
venient." Then, with a humorous glance that passed 
her over and sought Russell’s eye, he added : “We 


Her American Daughter 


189 


are still of the opinion that behind the ardor of your 
Cuban sympathizers there is more sugar than philan- 
thropy !” 

The girl professed her own ignorance of recent 
American politics; for she was too weary, and too 
troubled at the thought of Mr. Stafford’s anxiety, 
to sustain a conversation. Russell had already 
perceived this ; and as the street below was 
now comparatively clear, he suggested their with- 
drawal. A servant was despatched for a cab, and 
soon afterward, their farewells having been made, 
the two drove off together in the early twilight. 

For about five minutes both were very silent, each 
thinking of the other, yet appearing wholly occupied 
with the remnants of the mob still lurking in the 
side streets or swaggering boldly on the corners. 
The Prado was full of a vacillating, curious crowd 
that would gather rapidly in silent flocks about 
those who had aught to tell, and, at the first 
approach of a guardian of the peace, as quickly 
scatter. 

When their cab had rolled into the Alcala, Ray — 
who had all a woman’s dread of silence — turned to 
her companion with a laugh. 

“I’m afraid,” she said, “I would make a very poor 
heroine of romance. This afternoon I was only a 
helpless atom of humanity that might have been very 
easily crushed quite out of existence. It’s very 
humiliating — to realize how little one counts in the 
sum of the world’s affairs ! — to have one’s Ego wake 
up to the consciousness that it is not the pivot of 
the universe! But do you suppose that even Emer- 


190 


Her American Daughter 


son — though he might have found it possible to ‘sit 
at home and not suffer himself to be bullied by 
empires and kings’ — could have maintained that 
pose in the middle of a mob?” 

Russell smiled. “I am sure — leaving Emerson 
out of the question — that neither your courage nor 
your philosophy can be gauged by your physical 
powers. — But are you certain you are not hurt ?” and 
his face, as he bent over her, was full of a tender 
concern. 

“Only a little bruised and shaken,” she answered 
lightly. “A phrenologist would probably find my 
head an interesting study, — I am sure my right bump 
of constructiveness is something abnormal !” .Then, 
flushing under his look of distress, she exclaimed: 
“What an ending to a perfect afternoon ! It is hard 
to realize that two hours ago I was picking violets in 
the Retiro and quoting Timrod’s Spring. But I 
understand now, as I never did before, the passion- 
ate protest in the final stanzas of that poem.” 

“I’m sorry I can’t recall them,” Russell said. “In 
fact, I’m not familiar with any of Timrod’s poetry 
— except his Carolina ” 

“That, of course,” said Ray. “But why haven’t 
you considered it worth your while to discover him ? 
We know and love your Lowell and Holmes and 
Longfellow — but I suppose you don’t look for litera- 
ture south of Mason and Dixon’s line.” 

“Oh !” he protested laughingly, with a glance that 
quelled the ristpg mutiny in the gray eyes. 

“Well,” she relented, “if you’ll promise me to cull 
for yourself, when you can, some of his ‘Southern 


Her American Daughter 191 

asphodels of song’ I’ll forgive you, but — oh, look !” 
and she seized his arm, “Look! Mr. Russell, just 
look at that ! Those students yonder — they are 
brickbatting, positively brickbatting our eagle !” 

It was true : the golden emblem over, the door of 
the Equitable building was being grossly insulted by 
a group of disorderly youths. The sight of it made 
Russell’s forehead burn and his lips draw close. 

“Can’t we stop them?” cried the girl excitedly. 
“Can’t we interfere ?” 

Russell ground his teeth. “No,” he said, “no!” 
and just then two mounted policemen galloped by 
and ordered the youths immediately to desist — 
which they did, vociferating but obedient. 

“You see,” said Russell, when their cab had 
passed beyond sight, “today’s outrages have been an 
offense against the peace of the city only. So long 
as the municipal authorities are enforcing order, we 
have no right to interfere. Our position now is one 
of responsibility; if any of us, actuated by a mis- 
taken sense of patriotism, were to become involved 
in a riot and injured — or perhaps killed — it would 
give a sinister complexion to these rather harmless 
ebullitions of ill feeling and might precipitate the 
very thing that our ministers are trying to prevent. 
For at this crisis the death or maltreatment of an 
American citizen would be a sufficient casus belli” 

Ray drew a deep breath and leaned back in her 
seat. “Yes,” she said, “you are right, you are per- 
fectly right. I never thought of that — in fact, I 
never thought at all! I was just — furious! I 


192 Her American Daughter 

believe — ” she laughed nervously and her eyes were 
moist and brilliant, “just at that moment I must 
have felt what Peter would have called a patriotic 
thrill l” 


CHAPTER XVII 


Peter and Don Francisco had already dismissed 
their cochero when the news of the outbreak over- 
took them; but immediately, impelled by a youthful 
craving for excitement, they summoned another cab 
and departed post haste for the Calle Serrano. On 
their way, they encountered Mr. Stafford, who had 
left his wife in a very nervous condition just inside 
the gate of the park and was searching distractedly 
for his missing charge. The two young men promptly 
assumed the task of finding her, placing their cab 
meanwhile at Mrs. Stafford’s disposal. 

By this time the riot had been quelled and the mob 
was ebbing into the Alcala, which was densely 
crowded for several blocks. The young men searched 
unremittingly for more than an hour, but of course 
without success; then, as twilight was setting in, 
Francisco advised their return to the Calle Mayor 
where — if the senorita had not yet arrived — they 
could make prompt application to the gobernador 
civil. 

However, just as they were dismounting from a 
street car on the corner of the Puerta del Sol, the cab 
containing Russell and Miss Woodward rolled past 
them. A shout from Peter caused the cochero to 
pull up, and the two pedestrians overwhelmed the 
girl with questions. 


194 


Her American Daughter 


“Talk about a boy’s propensity tor getting into 
scrapes!” exclaimed Peter, dimpling with relief, 
“why, Miss Ray could give any fellow half a day’s 
start and tumble in, head and shoulders deeper, 
before night! And the worst of it is that she does 
it so innocently! When I get into mischief, I don’t 
want too close an investigation; but bless you! if 
Miss Ray were to paint the whole town red, you’d 
probably find out that she did it as an object lesson 
to a Sunday-school !” 

After dinner that night, Russell betook himself 
to the hotel, where the news of the riot had preceded 
him — but had in no wise shaken Mrs. Dering’s 
resolve to leave for Cordova on the following day. 

“Why — ” she demanded, “should a disturbance 
made by a few Spanish rowdies affect my move- 
ments ? I might have felt differently if the authorities 
had taken no notice of them; but they say that the 
Legation and the Minister’s residence are to be sur- 
rounded by a cordon of police until everything has 
quieted down.” 

“That will be no protection to you,” Russell 
reminded her. 

“But we are private citizens — and who is to know 
we are not English, if we don’t proclaim our nation- 
ality ? Why, our passports have not been vise since 
we left Paris ! I do think, Mr. Russell, you are unne- 
cessarily anxious. Please — ” and she grew beseech- 
ing, “don’t communicate your fears to Aunt Eliza- 
beth, for she is strongly in favor of taking the next 
northward bound train and not stopping short of 


Her American Daughter 195 

French territory — while my idea is to make a flying 
trip through southern Spain and then go on to Italy. 
Fve positively decided to spend Easter in Rome — 
and no arguments will move me !” 

“I won’t attempt any, provided you agree to post- 
pone your departure a day or two,” promised Rus- 
sell, “but if you are then of the same mind, and the 
situation warrants it, I will give myself the pleasure 
of seeing you aboard your steamer.” 

“That would be charming!” she declared. “I’ll 
wait over, on those terms, until Thursday.” 

And so the matter rested. 

Meanwhile, over telegraph lines and transatlantic 
cables, flashed the story of the abortive attack on the 
envoy of the United States. Soon, ugly reports 
appeared in the American papers ; on Tuesday, Mr. 
Stafford received a cablegram, from a prominent 
weekly journal, requesting a full page illustration of 
the scene of Sunday afternoon ; and on the same day, 
the Paris edition of the New York Herald in omi- 
nous black headlines announced RUMORS OF 
WAR! Thornton cabled his friend an anxious 
reminder of the promise made in Tangier two months 
before — and Russell read the little blue strip with a 
set countenance and thrust it impatiently in his 
pocket. The four artists worked feverishly at their 
incompleted studies, but hesitated about beginning 
anything new. 

One morning Peter came in rather flushed and 
excited, declaring that a mischievous golfo on the 
street had thrown an empty tomato can at his head, 
and had taken flight immediately before retribution 


196 


Her American Daughter 


could be meted out. But the lunch table committee, 
deliberating over this, decided finally that it was to 
be regarded rather as a personal compliment than as 
an anti-American demonstration. News of genuine 
disturbances, however, reached them daily; in Bar- 
celona a very serious riot had occurred, and in sev- 
eral other towns there had been trouble, instigated 
chiefly by the students. 

But Wednesday afternoon found Mrs. Dering 
serenely obstinate: her trunks had been packed for 
days; her courier had once more made all the 
arrangements for her departure the next morning. 
“If you’d really like to join us, we should be 
delighted to have you,” she told Russell, “especially 
Aunt Elizabeth, who will insist on feeling nervous — 
as though anything could possibly happen to two 
ladies on a pleasure trip !” 

The author returned to his lodgings and packed a 
portmanteau; arranged his heavier belongings for 
immediate transportation, in case of need, and 
intrusted Peter with the care of them ; paid Dolores 
for his room a month in advance, but declared his 
intention of returning as soon as possible; received 
a polite farewell from Ray — to whom this sudden 
move admitted of but one explanation; and on 
Thursday morning departed — as Thornton would 
have said — “in the tail of the comet!” 

The surprise of his friends was voiced by Peter at 
the lunch table. “Positively,” said the boy, “you 
could have knocked me down with a feather ! I hadn’t 
a suspicion that Russell was so completely gone on 
Mrs. Dering — not the faintest suspicion of it !” Ray, 


Her American Daughter 


197 


however, decided inwardly that she had seen pre- 
vious signs of a mutual attraction — also, that it was 
the most natural thing in the world. 

During the week that followed, their thoughts 
were occupied chiefly with all the floating rumors 
that came to them from sources reliable and other- 
wise. Occasionally, they were tempted to discuss 
the situation with Don Antonio, who spoke very 
guardedly — as became a clerk of the Ministerio de la 
Guerra in possession, probably, of inside informa- 
tion. Francisco, however, loudly echoed the senti- 
ments expressed in the tertulias of the Cafe Fornos — 
that Spain could well afford to overlook the blatant 
jingoismo of a few Yankee senators so long as it 
failed to receive the endorsement of their chief 
executive. 

All the political cartoons which were appearing in 
the Spanish papers were collected carefully by Peter, 
and two of them afforded him considerable entertain- 
ment — Spain, disguised as the Knight of La Mancha, 
tilting against a flock of Yankee sheep; and Uncle 
Sam’s machine for utilizing the sweepings of the 
world at large in the manufacture of American citi- 
zens — weak-kneed little gentleman in silk hats, who 
emerged from the open spout like sausage meat from 
an enormous chopper. 

“I declare, Peter,” cried Ray, inspecting these 
pictorial sneers as they were tacked up on the studio 
wall, “I think we’ll have to send your photograph to 
the artist just to show him what an American citi- 
zen really looks like !” 


198 Her American Daughter 

“Well,” said Peter modestly, “I’m a pretty fair 
sample, eh ? Height, six-feet-two ; weight, one hun- 
dred and eighty-seven ; age, twenty-one years — and 
just spoiling for a fight! Don’t you think a per- 
sonal call would be more effective than a photo?” 

Then Mr. Stafford quietly forbade either. “The 
less conspicuous we make ourselves now, the better,” 
he declared. “If the President thinks it inadvisable to 
accord belligerent rights to the Cubans, this whole 
unpleasantness may blow over. I’m sure I hope it 
will! That Venezuelan difficulty is hardly settled — 
and we are really not prepared for a conflict with a 
strong maritime power.” 

Peter cried “Stuff !” and charged an imaginary foe 
with his mahl-stick, announcing loudly that he 
would just like to see the country that America 
couldn’t whip! 

But Ray broke in thoughtfully : “Mr. Stafford is 
right ; Mr. Russell said very much the same thing : it 
would be a mistaken sense of patriotism that prompt- 
ed any of us to stir up more ill feeling at a time like 
this.” 

“Well, I reckon I have some discretion,” the boy 
retorted. “Did you hear those students in the Prado 
this morning? They marched right under the gal- 
lery windows singing incendiary songs ; and although 
I’m not such a duffer at Spanish that I couldn’t 
understand what they meant, I just chewed up a 
paint brush and held my tongue through it all. But 
I’ll tell you one thing — if war is ever declared, good- 
bye Paris ! For if I don’t take the next steamer home 
and get into a blue uniform, why — I’m a Dutch- 
man!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

Mrs. Dering’s itinerary was subject to change, as 
Russell soon discovered; a half hour’s study of the 
guide book, or a single question directed across the 
hotel table by some enthusiastic tourist who had 
already “done” the neighboring country, would be 
quite sufficient to detain her several days longer in 
one place or to start her off immediately in some 
new and wholly unforeseen direction. Their tickets 
had been purchased through to Cordova, but at the 
eleventh hour she decided that it would be a pity to 
pass Toledo without stopping; so the courier was 
sent on with their luggage while Russell and the 
two ladies turned aside for a day in that ancient 
city — where, had it not been for the goat’s milk in 
her coffee, Mrs. Dering might have been content to 
linger for a week. 

At Cordova, after the most energetic sightseeing, 
she became infatuated with Moorish architecture 
and urged a hasty visit to Granada ; and, although it 
was but a short time since Russell’s previous visit, 
he was well content to dream away four days of 
golden spring weather in the beautiful courts of the 
Alhambra. But one morning, at the breakfast table 
in the Hotel Washington Irving, a stout and pros- 
perous individual of British parentage but of cos- 


200 


Her American Daughter 


mopolitan tastes assured this lady of uncertain 
movements that Malaga was much more worthy of 
her attention. 

So to Malaga they journeyed, and — despite its 
beautiful situation, its azure skies and its sloe-eyed 
women — Mrs. Dering after one day pronounced it 
too up-to-date and commercial, and was filled with a 
sudden longing to see Cadiz and sleepy, sunny old 
Seville. Russell, meanwhile, had supplied himself 
with the latest newspapers and discovered that in 
the twelve days of his futile knight errantry the 
fever of resentment against American interference 
had to a great extent abated. Mrs. Dering said, “I 
told you so,” and forthwith planned many excur- 
sions through the interior with so serene an air of 
independence that pride forbade his surrendering his 
knightly task until he had seen her out of Spanish 
territory. 

With a speed that Rozinante might have rivaled, 
they continued on their way, pausing next at Ronda 
for a couple of days and then at Gaucin for a visit to 
the ancient castle and monastery; but on the even- 
ing of the twenty-first of March they crossed the bay 
from Algeciras to Gibraltar and arrived within the 
walls of that most impregnable of British fortresses. 

It was at the Hotel Royal and in the identical 
room where, two months before, he had meditated 
on stray mermaids with wet, seagreen eyes that Rus- 
sell, after supper, unfolded an English newspaper 
and perceived that the Hispano-American difficulty 
had retired from the head lines on the first page 
to an obscure place at the foot of an inside column. 


Her American Daughter 


201 


Whereupon he abused himself for a quixotic fool 
and thought hard things of his friend Hal Thornton 
— as was very human and excusable ! 

Thirty-six hours later he bade farewell to Mrs. 
Dering — whose desires were still vacillating between 
Holy Week in Seville and Easter in Rome — and 
with a strange buoyancy of spirit turned his own 
face toward Madrid. 

During the past two weeks of dalliance, of aim- 
less wanderings, he had carried in his thoughts a 
triple cord : the broken thread of his novel — flutter- 
ing distressfully like the severed gossamer of a 
spider’s web; the coarser strand of actualities that 
took its color partly from the Andalusian atmos- 
phere, partly from Mrs. Dering ; and a third filament 
— fine-spun, and strong as fate — that drew him ever 
backward. And now, with every mile the dilatory 
train achieved, he seemed to feel a greater tension. 
The double-faced clocks suspended before each of 
the long, low yellow-washed estaciones along the 
route mocked him with their inconsistencies; the 
hours seemed interminable. But at noon on the second 
day the train rumbled into the city, the guard cried 
“Madre-e-eth !” in a high pitched, nasal voice, and 
the door of his compartment was unlocked. 

In the Calle Mayor, Ray was toiling up the long 
stairway with a flowery burden; she held in one 
hand a bouquet of white narcissus and her left arm 
clasped an immense pot of blooming pansies. The 
jar was heavy and the stairs were steep; half way 
up she sat her down to rest — and heard the swift, 


202 Her American Daughter 

light tread of a man ascending. A moment later, 
Russell appeared on the landing just below. 

As he looked up and saw the slim young figure 
with the mass of bloom on its knees, he felt a sudden 
tightening of that mysterious third filament; and 
the haunting thought, that had never left him since 
the afternoon of the riot, became conviction: this 
gray eyed girl on the stairs, whose sweet flushed face 
looked down upon him from over the flower-pot 
brimming with pansies, was the One Woman in all 
the world. For two months he had been studying 
her — a small bewitching bundle of femininity — with 
her thousand contradictions, her sudden flares, her 
meltings, her sincerities; she was neither over wise 
nor uncommonly beautiful, but very genuine and 
lovable ; and today he remembered nothing save her 
nearness and her dearness. Up the intervening steps 
he bounded and offered her his hand. 

Very calmly she extended hers. “Spring has 
come/’ she said. 

“So have I !” he gently reminded her. 

“And of course you are equally welcome/’ she 
returned with a disconcerting glance — for today the 
gray eyes were cool, shimmering, unfathomable. 
“How did you leave Mrs. Ward . . . and 

Mrs. Dering ?” 

He disposed of both in a few careless words; 
then, hearing other feet on the stairs mounting 
nearer and nearer, he asked, in the few seconds that 
remained to him, if she could spare him one of her 
pansies. 


Her American Daughter 


203 


It is probable that ninety nine men out of a hun- 
dred would have done the same. And the hundredth 
man, if more original, would have been less wise; 
for, as a general rule, women like to be petitioned 
for these small favors, SO' valueless except at their 
bestowing. And man divines it! Schoolboy or 
philosopher, peasant or prince, his tactics are very 
much the same — and have been so since the begin- 
ning of time : Adam must have pleaded for an apple 
blossom before he ever tasted of the tree; for some 
kinds of wisdom are inborn. 

“Certainly,” said Ray; and, presenting the jar, 
bade him help himself. 

That was a disappointment; he would have pre- 
ferred to receive it at her hands. The same jar 
afterwards adorned the lunch table; and as Peter’s 
buttonhole was decorated, and Mr. Stafford’s, and 
Mrs. Stafford’s, and as Ray politely and urgently 
offered pansies to Don Antonio and Don Francisco, 
Russell could take little pleasure in his own. But 
that disproves nothing whatsoever. 

The Staffords had finally decided that it would be 
possible for them to carry out their original program 
of visiting Seville. There were no longer any imme- 
diate grounds for apprehension, as the United States 
had refrained from further championship of the 
Cuban cause and Spain had plainly shown her own 
desire for peace. Even when, in April, President 
Cleveland tendered the friendly offices of his Gov- 
ernment for mediatorial purposes, the mother coun- 
try’s declination was as courteous as it was firm. 
Nevertheless, there remained always a consciousness 


204 


Her American Daughter 


of subterranean fires; and our little colony of 
Americans felt constrained to keep a constant guard 
upon their lips, their very gestures. 

Once again, during the past fortnight, Ray had 
been seriously annoyed by the pertinacious attentions 
of the mysterious Teodoro; but she had made no 
mention of the incident lest Peter or Mr. Stafford 
should become involved for her sake in a dispute. 
The diminution of their party was a source of regret 
to her now; but there still remained Dolores, her 
guardian and adviser-in-chief, and Peter’s comrade- 
ship was quite loyal enough to stand an additional 
strain. 

The Monday after Russell’s return was the 
beginning of Holy Week, and that night the Staf- 
fords took their departure. The two art stu- 
dents who remained behind had planned to spend 
the next day sketching on the banks of the Man- 
zanares, just without the city limits. 

“If we carry our lunch with us we can stay till 
sundown,” Peter said. “That will give us time to 
paint two studies apiece. And I’ll tell you what, 
Miss Ray, we can invite Russell to go along.” 

“Oh, no !” she cried. 

“But why not? It would be downright shabby 
not to ask him, and he’s first rate company 
What’s that ? we haven’t got a chaperon ? 
Great Scott ! who wants a chaperon with five thou- 
sand washerwomen looking on?” 

“Very well, Peter; you may ask him if you like — 
he would never dream of accepting.” 


Her American Daughter 


205 


But he did. His work had suddenly lost all its 
savor; his very soul revolted at the thought of 
musty old histories, of dry-as-dust records, of dead 
and gone romances, conflicts and intrigues ; he hated 
the puppets his imagination had created; he was 
no longer moved by their hypothetical woes. Day 
after day he had thrown down his pen in despair 
and hurried forth to seek, in the outer sunshine and 
amid the living faces on the street, the one counte- 
nance that perpetually obtruded itself between him 
and the unwritten page. In this mood Peter’s invi- 
tation found him, and immediately he locked his 
desk. His hero’s wooing must give precedence to 
his own! 

A spirit of joyous vagabondage possessed the 
three of them as they started out next morning, with 
the portero’s grandson — a jovial, brownfaced urchin 
of some ten or eleven summers — trudging in their 
wake, armed with Ray’s folding easel and the lunch 
basket. 

Out of the Calle Mayor with its bustle of business 
and rattling cabs; criss-cross through a grassy 
square near the massive foundations of the some- 
time-to-be cathedral; close by the Royal Palace, a 
long, low, sumptuous pile gleaming like ivory in the 
early sunshine; northward then, in the rear of the 
walled-in, beautiful gardens of the Campo del Moro 
— where his frail little majesty, Alphonso XIII, 
enjoyed his daily canter on “el jaca gray;” for a 
good half mile along the Camino del Pardo that par- 
allels the watercourse; past the hermita of San 
Antonio — blessed patron of lovers and of quadru- 


206 


Her American Daughter 


peds ; loitering, hurrying — just as it pleased them — 
wandered the four. And not the least happy was 
Tonito, who served them always with a devotion 
born of periodical fritulas from the spice-breathing 
hot-cake stand just over the way from Dolores door, 
and who had visions now of a whole pocketful of 
“perrachicas” to be invested there on his return. 

It was a day to be marked on the calendar with 
sapphires and diamonds, such a day as comes but 
once in all the year — when Spring, the shy stranger, 
first lifts her head and smiles! Behind them, the 
city; on their right, a stretch of gray green woods 
shot through with sunbeams — like a landscape by 
Corot ; before them on the far horizon, the Guadar- 
rama range still tipped with silver; on their left, 
the shallow Manzanares — also some five thousand 
washerwomen (by Peter’s count) and the drying 
linen of Madrid. 

Clothes lines, an unbroken web of them, extend 
for nearly a mile along either bank of the river. On 
Sundays they are always empty and the bare 
crooked poles stand up forlorn, a leafless thicket. 
Then, the river appears deserted ; it babbles with all 
its shallow might as it trickles over the stones, won- 
dering to itself, no doubt, at the unwonted stillness 
in the air. But on Monday morning, bright and 
early, come the lavanderas from their cabins in the 
rear, come the children clinging to their mothers’ 
skirts, come the husbands back from their usual 
rounds with great bundles for the wash, come the 
little gray donkeys, too, with only their long ears 
visible between the huge white bags of linen swung 


Her American Daughter 


207 


across their patient shoulders. And soon the trans- 
parent ripples are afoam, the air is filled with a 
cheerful chatter and the forest of bare poles begins 
to blossom. This was Tuesday, and — flip! flap! 
flutter ! — the sheets of the city were waving in the 
breeze. 

Kneeling in their little wooden cajones on the very 
brink of the icy cold stream — that has its source in 
the melting snows of the mountains — with sleeves 
uprolled and bare red arms immersed to the elbow, 
the lavanderas splashed and scrubbed. In their 
unending labor they must often endure bleak winds 
and burning suns, aching knees and blistered arms ; 
but still the laugh rings out with hearty humor and 
the gossip, jest and jibe are never failing. 

“I wonder — ” said Ray musingly, as she and Rus- 
sell lingered on the rustic footbridge that spanned 
the narrow water course, “I wonder if they are as 
contented as they seem — if they have no ambitions 
either for themselves or for their children! Now, 
in America the mother of a pretty girl like that one 
over yonder — ” 

“Would be making a regrettable vacancy for the 
benefit of Ah Sin Lee!” and her companion lazily 
smiled; sociological problems had no interest for 
him just then, he was far too busy trying to detect 
some difference between her manner to him and her 
frank intercourse with young Harding. Since his 
return he had become resentfully aware of a subtle 
change in her — a cool and friendly composure, a 
bright unfathomable calm. He would give worlds, he 
thought, to see it shattered only once! But here 


208 


Her American Daughter 


Peter, like a cheerful cyclone, hurried theml across ; 
sketching easels were set up on the bank, color boxes 
were unstrapped and the artists fell to work with 
zestful industry. 

The shyness of the genial river folk was soon 
mastered by their curiosity; they began to venture 
near the easels and to rally their companions gaily 
as they recognized the red kerchief of Luisa, or the 
blue gown of Pepita, scrubbing away at the water’s 
edge encircled by waves of foam. And then Pepita 
must needs wipe her soapy hands and climb the bank 
to peer over the artist’s shoulders and exclaim aloud 
in soft wonderment. For, Holy Saint Anthony! 
the senorito had set down every rag of Josef a’ s wash 
— but the sheets were not so clean as they should be ! 
Indeed, no; if the senor would trouble himself to 
look again he would surely perceive it ! 

By dint of many questions it was discovered 
that the strangers were from over seas, and 
had come all this journey for the sake of Murillo 
and Velazquez — both names to conjure with, for 
the art treasures of Spain are the heritage of rich 
and poor alike. So now, in the pride and hospitality 
of their hearts, they offered to the pilgrim guests 
all the small courtesies they could devise ; and grow- 
ing more familiar as the hours wore away, they ven- 
tured at last on some rather rough and disconcerting 
pleasantries. 

What did Pepita suppose was the relationship 
between the little senorita and the two so very tall 
senores? Was she sister to either of them? No? 
Then she must be wife or noma to one. Josef a 


Her American Daughter 209 

thought it must be the caballero who sat there so 
patiently with the book which he did not read. Was 
it so? No, again! only amigos, all three of them? 
Puf! Luisa knew better than to believe that. So 
pretty a senorita and so handsome a caballero, they 
would be marrying each other before the year was 
out ! And a ripple of laughter ran down 

the stream as the jest passed on. 

Russell lowered his book and gazed fixedly at 
Ray, who was painting busily, concentratedly. She 
had turned a deaf — an apparently oblivious ear while 
Peter alone responded to the mischievous fire of 
questions ; but a few minutes later, when pausing to 
replenish the colors on her palette, she threw a fur- 
tive glance at the silent figure further up the bank. 
There was a shock of meeting eyes, her own fell 
swiftly, and a wave of vivid crimson dyed her throat 
and cheek and brow; whereupon Russell, with a 
thrill of satisfaction, turned over three or four 
pages at once. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Easter Monday. 

My Dear Louise : — 

It is well, perhaps, that we have no prescience of 
the happenings that derange our plans, or we would 
never venture to lay any. All of ours seem to have 
“gane agley” since I wrote you last. Tomorrow the 
Staffords were to have returned, and the regular rou- 
tine of our work — which has been somewhat broken 
by their absence — would have been taken up again. 
Tonight, however, I find myself alone under the 
senora’s wing while Peter is steaming, as fast as a 
Spanish locomotive can take him, down to Seville 
where Mr. Stafford lies sick, probably from over- 
work and overworry. 

This afternoon, just as Dolores, Mr. Russell, 
Peter and I were about starting for the Plaza de 
Toros, where I was to have witnessed my first bull 
fight, a telegram arrived from Mrs. Stafford : We 
cannot leave for my husband is very ill. It was 
addressed to Peter, who read it quietly and handed 
it on to me saying : “l must go to them by the next 
train. Poor little woman, she must be at her wit’s 
end!” And with that he went straight to his room 
and began packing. 


Her American Daughter 211 

I 

It was only what I should have expected of Peter. 
Whenever there is a disagreeable task to be per- 
formed, he doesn’t look around to see who else can 
be got to do it, he just does it himself, promptly and 
effectually. In spite of his boyishness and fun, it is 
to Peter that we look in emergencies, and he is gen- 
erally equal to the occasion. I begin to feel that I 
have never really appreciated him. He is a friend 
worth having anywhere, loyal and trustworthy ; but 
when one is far away in a foreign country he repre- 
sents just six-feet-two of solid comfort. I shall miss 
him terribly, but I know how Mrs. Stafford’s pale, 
pathetic face will glow with gratitude when he 
marches into the sick room and takes possession. 

At first I wanted to go too. However, under all 
the circumstances, Peter thought it inadvisable, it 
was better to save the extra passage money for doc- 
tor’s bills and medicine. We are afraid the Staf- 
fords’ funds are very low. 

Mr. Russell was exceedingly kind, he offered in 
the nicest possible way to act as Mr. Stafford’s 
banker; but Peter wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh, that’s 
all right ” he said, and rammed both hands in his 
pockets. I was so glad he felt that way, for although 
Mr. Russell is almost like one of us, he isn’t quite. 
I don’t imagine he’s a very wealthy man, but he 
seems to have as much money as he needs for the 
gratification of all his tastes, and the one feature 
of bohemianism that I do approve has probably 
never come to his attention — I mean what Peter calls 
“pooling our incomes.” There is a sort of family tie 
between impecunious artists, — you understand, 


212 Her American Daughter 

Louise, — if Peter or I were ever to be ill, the Staf- 
fords would do for us like a real brother and sister ; 
so now we don’t care to call in an outsider’s aid. If 
this illness proves very serious, I dare say Mr. Rus- 
sell will renew his offer to Mrs. Stafford ; that would 
be different — and Mr. Stafford has already com- 
pleted several of the illustrations he was engaged to 
do. For the present, though, I think we shall man- 
age very nicely. I’m so glad I didn’t buy that Moor- 
ish stuff — and my new spring things won’t cost me 
much, for the dressmaker who lives on our attic 
floor does beautiful work and her charges are ridicu- 
lously smjall. One of her seamstresses has a sweet- 
heart among the soldiers who were sent in Febru- 
ary to Cuba, and last week, when I was being fitted, 
the poor girl’s eyes were swollen with weeping — she 
had just seen his name in the list of wounded. There 
is so much trouble in the world ! 

I have been making myself a little parable from 
my two names, which suggest the contradictory ten- 
dencies of my nature — my Hyde and Jekyll roles. 
Whatever etymologists may say, Ray and Raven 
both mean Wanderer. But, while the dark messenger 
went to and fro, aimlessly, forgetfully, the bright 
one takes a straight flight through the void, holding 
fast through all its course the secrets it was charged 
with, fulfilling its mission when the goal is reached. 
I wish I had been christened Ray instead of Raven ; 
I’m not often superstitious, but tonight the ill- 
omened significance of my given name is haunt- 
ing me. 


Her American Daughter 


213 


I suppose I am homesick; I ought not to let 
you know it, but I can’t help myself. Am I as dear 
to you, I wonder, as I used to be in the days when 
the one name “Twins” used to do for us both? Of 
course, I can’t expect now to have the first place in 
your heart; but it is the same place, isn’t it? You 
have but builded on new and wider chambers for the 
new loves in your life? It would be so — I think — 
with me. 

Yesterday was Easter Sunday. I went alone to 
the English chapel; it seemed forlorn, without a 
single flower, when outside 

“One looked to see the very street 
Grow purple at one’s feet.” 

There were only seven people in the congregation. 
Mr. Russell was among them, he must have come 
in after I did, for I didn’t see him till the service was 
over; but he waited at the door for me and we 
walked home together. 

It was unmistakably a gala day. We both noticed 
the stir, the suppressed excitement among the crowds 
on the pavement: the very air was vibrating with 
the word torero. A strange people are the Span- 
iards, and their religion is to me the strangest part 
of them. It is medieval in its superstition and bar- 
barous in its expression, but at all times it is intensely 
social. To a superficial observer this past week, the 
mood of the people has been precisely the same, 
whether they were making the round of the churches 
on Holy Thursday, witnessing the Good Friday 
pageant with its ghastly graven images, its priestly 


214 


Her American Daughter 


and military escort, or driving to the Circus on 
Easter Sunday or Monday to see the biggest bull 
fights of the year. Social functions, all of them, 
differentiated only by this trifling detail : during the 
first two days every lady appeared in a black man- 
tilla; during the last two, she exchanged it for a 
white one. 

Mr. Russell seemed to think that a foreigner might 
be equally struck by the unholy holidays at home; 
but when I discovered an analogy between our 
Thanksgiving football and the Easter bull fight, 
he rather resented it. I wasn’t surprised. It is only 
the women who have wept — like you, Louise, — over 
the wreck of a Grecian nose that find anything bar- 
barous in football. 

I ascertained — with much difficulty, for he is a 
modest man — that Mr. Russell had once played half 
back on a Harvard team, escaping, providentially, 
with only a broken collar bone and a few sprains and 
bruises. He was telling me something of his college 
days as we came from church, and he related a very 
pleasant anecdote of Mr. Thornton — too long for 
repetition here. “In my father’s and grandfather’s 
time,” he went on, “there was a very close friend- 
ship between the Russells and the Thorntons, which 
— unlike most hereditary intimacies — has survived 
in the third generation.” I wondered to myself how 
far that was due to Mrs. Dering. He was about to 
speak of her, I think, when we found ourselves at 
the senora’s door. 

Since the Staffords left we have seen a great deal 
of Mr. Russell, — as is only natural in a small circle 


Her American Daughter 


215 


like ours. Don Francisco is off on a month’s leave; 
Don Antonio plays chess every night at the Cafe 
Suizo and, when at home, is always closeted with 
visitors — grayhaired, mysterious, official-looking 
persons, who may come to discuss affairs of state or 
only our friend’s Madeira and cigars. But we 
Americans have spent our evenings with the senora 
in the comedor, poring over a heap of Spanish books 
and papers, from which Mr. Russell often read 
aloud, translating constantly for Peter’s benefit, 
while from time to time Dolores threw in an illumin- 
ating word or capped some story with a clever anec- 
dote told in her bright dramatic way. 

I can’t leave Madrid without a portrait of her — 
that is, if I can persuade her to sit to me. Perhaps I 
may be able to manage it while Peter is away. 

The prospect of working alone in the gallery is 
not enjoyable; for my bete noire, the man who calls 
himself Teodoro, is very often to be encountered 
there. I dislike exceedingly having to snub people, 
and when I administer my very worst without effect, 
it makes my angry passions rise. Moreover, it puts 
me in a false position. For instance : 

On the afternoon of Holy Thursday, Peter and I 
were coming home from the studio when we encoun- 
tered a most remarkable crowd. Carriages or 
vehicles of any kind are not permitted on the streets 
during Thursday and Friday of Holy Week, but the 
Spaniards have adroitly converted what would have 
been a deprivation into a social opportunity: since 
even the Queen must go afoot, it becomes the most 
desirable thing to do. You know how an afternoon 


216 Her American Daughter 

tea — in the springtime when the windows are open — 
becomes audible nearly a block away? Well, imag- 
ine all the teas of your experience united in one, and 
you will form some idea of the sounds that filled the 
Alcala and the Puerta del Sol from four o’clock until 
twilight. Two streams of people, all in their best 
attire, were coming and going; but although they 
constantly mingled, there was no crowding and no 
haste. Peter and I, each holding a sheaf of paint 
brushes, easily made our way through the murmur- 
ing current. On all sides of us, caballeros were 
throwing themselves metaphorically at the feet of 
their fair acquaintances, and mantillas were respond- 
ing gracefully to the greetings of sombreros. What 
a fascination lurks in a mantilla and a' rose ! In my 
simple straw hat, although it is new and not unbe- 
coming, I felt so unromantic, so inartistic! By its 
aid, however, Mr. Russell recognized me and joined 
us. It was strange to see so few familiar faces in all 
that throng. Senor de Tolosa and his wife paused a 
moment to inquire after my health, and I exchanged 
a bow with one of the ladies I had met at their house 
on the afternoon of the riot ; then I supposed I had 
exhausted my small circle. But presently Mr. Russell 
said, “There on your left, Miss Woodward, is an 
acquaintance who is very eager to be recognized.” 

I looked up and met the eyes of my bete noire, 
insolently familiar. “He’s no acquaintance of mine !” 
I cried impulsively — too late perceiving that the 
foremost gentleman was Don Enrique de Silvela. I 
bowed then in haste, and he responded gallantly. At 


Her American Daughter 


217 


the same instant, that wretched Teodoro doffed his 
hat again, exclaiming with cool audacity : “Forever 
your slave, Reina mia!” 

I heard Peter’s Hello! and I felt Mr. Russell’s 
scrutiny. Had I been a man, I would have indulged 
in a little profanity; being a woman, of course I 
blushed. Then, before I could utter a word of explan- 
ation, Mr. Russell began to talk quietly of the 
strange ceremony of the morning, to which he had 
been fortunate enough to gain admittance, in which 
the Queen herself washes the feet of a dozen beggars. 
But I was quite incapable of listening. 

I so detest anything clandestine; there’s not an 
atom of the intriguante in my nature ; in fact, as you 
are aware, I’m the most transparent person alive: 
consequently, this little episode has been excessively 
annoying. One never knows just what Mr. Russell 
thinks ; he’s so reticent, so — so Northern ! altogether 
different from Peter, who is delightfully comprehen- 
sible and quite Southern in his spontaneity ! . . . 

About midnight on this same Monday, the writer 
of the foregoing letter was the subject of another 
conversation between the two Silvelas in the Cafe 
Fornos, a conversation begun by Don Enrique in a 
spirit of goodhumored railery and ending, as not 
infrequently happened, in a temporary rupture 
between the cousins. The captain’s other friends 
never ceased to wonder that the mere tie of kinship 
could bridge over the vast difference in the tastes and 
habits of these two men, and they were unanimously 
of the opinion that nothing but the kindly generosity 


218 


Her American Daughter 


of Enrique’s nature made it possible. The other’s 
disposition was moody in the extreme ; and beneath 
his overweening vanity, his reckless cynicism, his 
vacillating passions, lurked a vein of cold brutality 
and a most unexpected shrewdness. He had many 
intimates but, with the one exception of his cousin 
Enrique, apparently no friends. Sometimes it hap- 
pens, though, that a man who has betrayed himself 
to his own sex as utterly selfish and unscrupulous, 
not to be counted on either in his likings or in his 
hates, may yet compel the faith, the devotion, the 
unswerving loyalty of some woman more weak than 
vicious, who becomes first his plaything and then his 
tool : such a man was Teodoro de Silvela. And the 
real cause of Enrique’s long-suffering friendship was 
intense family pride. For the sake of the old name 
surviving only in Teodoro and himself, for the honor 
of an ancient house now all but extinct, the young 
captain held fast to what little influence he still pos- 
sessed over his cousin, exhibiting an apparent toler- 
ance for the other’s vices which he was very far from 
feeling. 

On this Easter Monday night his patience was 
unusually tried, for his companion had lost about 
one fifth of his year’s income at the bull fight that 
afternoon. Gambling was Teodoro’ s grand passion; 
the chances of the lottery, of the arena and the cock 
pit, or of trente et quarente at the Casino, fascinated 
him far more than the smiles of any woman. But his 
disposition was such that he could ill brook defeat 
of any kind; and when Enrique, with less than his 
usual tact, ventured on a jesting allusion to their 

\ 


Her American Daughter 219 

wager and the probable ownership of the two lottery- 
tickets in Francisco's keeping, it proved too much 
for his cousin's irritable temper. He hotly disclaimed 
having yet made any efforts in that quarter. 

“In fact," he declared, “as I suspected from the 
first, the girl is not worth the trouble. She is no 
beauty, to begin with — neither blanca nor morena. I 
have no fancy for the nondescript coloring of the 
typical American; a woman’s hair should be black 
or golden, her eyes blue as heaven or dark as night. 
I could love a fair devil or a swarthy angel — or vice 
versa; but a pale prude is not at all to my taste. 
Moreover, there is not even one rival in the field — 
and a woman without lovers is as tempting as a 
dinner without wine !" 

“Unless I am much mistaken," said the captain, 
“you do her an injustice; for — even if she has left 
no admirers in her own country — there is, in 
Madrid, at least one man in love with her gray eyes." 

“Quita! if you mean Francisco, — but where is 
that young provincial hiding himself ? I haven’t seen 
him for a week." 

“Down in his native groves, I suppose. He has 
been granted a month’s furlough — doubtless in con- 
sideration of the fact that he goes in June to Cuba. 
But it was not to him that I referred ; he is hardly 
capable of a serious affair. The lover I suspect is a 
fellow countryman of the senorita — one Meestair 
Rosail." 

“If I could be convinced of that — ■” mused Teo- 
doro, “it would be extremely diverting to thwart 
him ” 


220 Her American Daughter 

Enrique stared dubiously at his empty wineglass. 
“Be advised, and refrain from the attempt ; you will 
only fail, and perhaps give serious annoyance to the 
little American. That wager was discreditable to 
both of us; let us make an end of it at once. You 
will be no nearer success a month hence than you are 
now, so the tickets clearly belong to me; but I am 
willing to relinquish yours tonight for its cost price 
— twenty five duros.” 

“You are liberal,” sneered the other, “if I cared to 
purchase a lottery ticket, I could do so at the next 
street corner.” 

Don Enrique flushed deeply, but with a strong 
effort controlled himself. “Keep your money, 
cousin, and welcome! I am not scheming to take 
advantage of you. For the sake of the little senor- 
ita, whom I have had the honor to meet, I ask you 
to accept the ticket as a free gift.” 

Teodoro pushed back his chair with an oath. 
“ you !” he cried, “I would rather lose it !” 


CHAPTER XX 


At thirty-three a man very seldom makes love; if 
he is thoroughly in earnest, love is making him. The 
miracle that is being worked in himself, the read- 
justment of his whole scheme of existence, absorb 
him utterly. He bestows no thought on the little 
arts and wiles practiced by lovers in their first and 
second youth — that is to say, in unripeness and a 
too, too mellow age; a certain self esteem, that 
belongs of right to maturity, forbids such trifling. 
He is content to rest his claim upon what he really 
is, and upon what — by virtue of an honest affection 
— he hopes to become. He has, moreover, an instinc- 
tive faith in the ability of the right woman to rec- 
ognize in him the right man : her failure to do so 
would be incontestable evidence that she was not the 
right woman ! 

Such was Eliot Russell’s position during the first 
days following Peter’s departure. Stranded as 
were Ray and himself on a foreign shore, isolated 
amid a crowd and wrapped in the privacy of a com- 
mon speech unintelligible to those around, the bond 
between them strengthened hourly. Their very iso- 
lation, however, laid a check upon Russell’s lips; 
partly because he was one who could enjoy the pecu- 
liar charm of the situation, but chiefly because Ray’s 


222 Her American Daughter 

very dependence made him unwilling to force any 
change in their relations. Until one or all of her 
friends returned, he felt in honor bound to act only 
a friend’s part, and if the duties imposed upon 
friendship by his present code were somewhat more 
than common, who could wonder at it? It never 
occurred to him to consider the opinions of the 
Spaniards in the house — what Dolores thought, 
what Don Antonio suspected, what Benita saw. He 
never dreamed that the progress of his love affair 
was the daily topic in the kitchen, that the very pots 
on the range were tingling with romance ! Although 
the little maid hovered about them like a beneficent 
Cupid and the air with which she changed their 
plates was in itself a benediction, he was blind to it 
all. 

Not so was Ray. Benita’s wreathed smiles and 
significant glances woke many a blush of which Rus- 
sell cherished the remembrance. Dolores was the 
soul of discretion, Don Antonio rallied her only in 
the American’s absence, but Benita was an ever pres- 
ent source of torture. Some comfort she took in 
Francisco’s extended furlough, for she could easily 
conceive how much his simulated jealousy, his re- 
proachful despair, might add to the awkwardness of 
the situation. Indeed, it was more than awkward: 
this atmosphere surcharged with sentiment was 
offensive to her American maidenhood. For while, 
in her creed, love was the consummation of good 
comradeship, the latter did not invariably lead to 
love. 


Her American Daughter 223 

It was significant of the respect in which Russell 
was held that he was spared similar cause for annoy- 
ance. On one occasion Don Antonio did venture to 
remark to him, privately, that heaven had endowed 
the senorita with a beautiful soul ; to which he had 
assented with such imperturbability and so little 
enthusiasm that the Spaniard had immediately 
dropped the subject. 

.Toward the end of the week came a letter from 
Peter which Russell petitioned to see, and its trench- 
ant naivete was so characteristic of the writer that 
he smiled broadly as he read it. 

“Dear Miss Ray,” wrote the boy in his big bold 
hand, “it’s hot as blazes down here and Stafford’s got 
a sharp attack of fever. He’s been working like a 
crazy genius and I wonder he’s not dead. Luckily, 
there’s a doctor stopping in the hotel with us, a cap- 
ital fellow — English, but quite decent enough for an 
American. Has a mother and sister with him. Her 
name’s Gladys — I mean the sister’s — and she’s as 
pretty as pink shoes. Who else do you suppose are 
in Seville ? Mrs. Dering and her aunt. The Hazel- 
deans persuaded them to give up the Italian trip and 
spend Easter here instead. I don’t think the Doc- 
tor’s advice was disinterested — he seems quite smit- 
ten with Mrs. D. How are you getting along? I 
appointed Russell my deputy; so if you need the 
services of a man and a brother, call on him. Please 
forward our mail promptly. Stafford’s wild for 
news of his Salon picture. He did some stunning 
work last week and you can tell Russell I say so. I’ll 
report the patient in occasional bulletins, but don’t 


224 Her American Daughter 

look for another long letter like this for it takes too 
much time to write. And don’t imagine I’m at all 
gone on Miss Gladys Hazeldean — she hasn’t a parti- 
cle of style.” 

“Then his ‘swell’ ideal is in danger.” laughed Rus- 
sell, returning the sheet. “For evidently that after- 
thought was the suggestion of a guilty conscience. 
But I’m his debtor for the deputyship. Don’t let it 
be a sinecure, Miss Woodward.” 

“I was afraid you’d found it anything but!” 

“On the contrary, I never can discover enough to 
do!” 

This admission was of an artfulness, but it called 
forth no response ; a serenely indifferent glance from 
the gray eyes implied that she had no time to be 
devising devoirs for the proving of witless knights, 
and Russell promptly registered an oath of stricter 
service. 

That afternoon, starting out to join her at the 
Museum, he was amusedly conscious of his own 
alacrity, and wonder seized him afresh that he should 
have gone scot free for three and thirty years only 
to surrender at last to a slip of perversity like Ray. 
From recent experiences, he could predict to a degree 
the temperature of her cool little welcome, he could 
picture the uplift of her penciled brows, her engaging 
air of wonder at his punctual appearance. But if he 
should venture to inspect her work, to criticise and 
make suggestions, how she would flare up at once 
in defense of it, disdaining his opinions and support- 
ing her own with heated argument till his avowal of 
defeat should give the signal for her magnanimous 


Her American Daughter 225 

surrender. Then a new battle would begin, in which 
each would strive to outdo the other in recantation, 
and he should have to restrain her forcibly from put- 
ting into effect all the unnecessary touches and alter- 
ations that he had been artfully suggesting. This 
pleasing pastime would continue until the sharp 
ringing of a gong announced the hour for closing the 
gallery; and, though it meant the loss to her of a 
good thirty minutes’ work, he felt not the least com- 
punction, — for didn’t he owe many an unproductive 
morning to her spirit presence at his desk ? 

To compute the exact limits of his proximate 
encroachment, he drew out his watch and was dis- 
mayed to find that it had stopped at d quarter after 
three. As the treacherous hands had told the same 
story when he last consulted them, he began to fear 
that he was later than usual; but when the mellow 
bells of a distant church tower chimed for four 
o’clock, he was utterly chagrined. Ray would 
despise him for a laggard — and on this of all days, 
when he had just vowed to be more punctilious in 
his attendance! 

Pressing forward with redoubled haste, he per- 
ceived, coming down the street toward him, a wil- 
lowy girl in a winged straw hat and a trim fitting 
dove-colored gown (that, on its first appearance at 
breakfast that morning, had greatly taken his fancy) 
and beside her, the dapper figure of a man — a fellow 
with a carnation in his buttonhole, silk hatted and 
flourishing a cane! Of course neither the tile, the 
cane nor the carnation were reprehensible in them- 
selves ; but the angle of a hat brim, the size and color 


226 


Her American Daughter 


of a flower, the gyrations of a fool’s bauble, may 
make — thought Russell — an insufferable difference! 
What angered him most, however, was the scared 
look in Ray’s eyes as she recognized him — for he was 
wholly unconscious of the savage light in his own. 
On the other man’s face was a jaunty defiance; 
clearly, he was congratulating himself on filling a 
coveted position. 

Something in their several expressions had 
roused the curiosity of passers-by, who glanced back 
over their shoulders at the meeting of the three ; but 
if they had anticipated anything like a scene, they 
were disappointed, for Ray forestalled it with a 
prompt introduction. 

“Caballeros, let me make you acquainted ! Don — 
Don Teodoro, Mr. Russell,” and her voice broke sud- 
denly in a weak little laugh. “I thought you weren’t 
coming,” she added in English. “The gallery has 
closed.” 

Silvela had acknowledged the presentation by a 
mocking salute — he was profoundly honored by the 
Caballero’s acquaintance! But the caballero himself 
appeared to feel otherwise; he stared wordlessly at 
them both, lifted his hat with a frigid bow and passed 
on — blind to the white dejection and the insolent 
triumph he left behind him. 

There is probably nothing that a man — or an 
Anglo-Saxon, at least — finds harder to forgive in 
the woman he loves than a lack of truth. Small femi- 
nine concealments and prevarications may be con- 
doned by duenna-ridden nations and that oriental 


Her American Daughter 227 

skepticism which has never admitted the moral 
equality of the sexes; but the chief pride of the 
Anglo-Saxon woman is the admixture of comrade- 
ship with the love she inspires, and woe unto her who 
forgets that its basis is absolute truth! — “I would 
have a woman as true as Death,” wrote a famous 
American some fifty years ago, and the words will 
always find an echo wherever the English tongue is 
heard. “At the first real lie which works from the 
heart outward, she should be tenderly chloroformed 
into a better world,” for her mission in this is a fail- 
ure. 

Some such thought as this dogged Russell as he 
wandered on. What he demanded of a woman, first 
of all, was not that she should be very wise, but that 
she should be utterly true. And if Ray had been con- 
cealing all these months an intimacy of which she 
was ashamed, an intimacy of which even Peter 
appeared ignorant and which accident, only, had now 
betrayed, then — he was disappointed in her ! It was 
not the mere fact that she had been permitting the 
Spaniard’s attentions, he could find a thousand 
excuses for that in her youth and inexperience ; but 
that she had recently, in plain words, denied the 
acquaintance was absolutely unpardonable. And her 
forced laugh, her little air of bravado just now, as 
she went through the introduction had positively 
made him ill ! 

He walked the streets for hours in a state of 
wretched disillusionment ; and that night, when they 
met at the dinner table, his pale stern face was a mute 
reproach. For the first few minutes her eyes sought 


228 


Her American Daughter 


his again and again with a look in which pride, guilt 
and penitence were strangely blended; but as the 
interminable meal dragged on, only the pride sur- 
vived, and finally she ignored him altogether, giving 
her whole attention to Don Antonio. Russell took 
no part in the conversation ; and as soon as decency 
permitted, he rose and left the room. But the stress 
and tumult of his thoughts drove him from the house 
again, and out in the ill lighted streets he drifted mis- 
erably; before him — a fading beacon — was that 
ideal woman who had always been above suspicion ; 
and tugging heavily at his heart, like a dragging 
anchor, was a love that was dying hard ! 


CHAPTER XXI 


“Que fastidioso 
es mi Manuelo! 
yo no puedo mirar 
a otro caballero; 
yo no puedo pasar 
sin el abanico; 
que fastidioso 
es Manuelito!” 

It was Saturday morning; Benita was down on 
her knees in the kitchen, cleaning out the week’s 
ashes from the old brick range and singing, as she 
worked, at the top of a lusty young voice. All the 
doors and windows were open, and the jubilant 
treble penetrated to the uttermost recesses of the 
flat ; in the rear hall, where Ray was setting up her 
easel, the echoes were deafening, so when a sudden 
change of posture robbed the singer of breath, her 
listener drew a sigh of relief. The blessed lull that 
followed was sweetly punctuated by low twitterings 
from the wicker cages in the window. 

Michito, the frivolous kitten, came sidling down 
the hall and made coquettish advances to the grave 
eyed girl at the easel ; but receiving no encourage- 
ment, retired in a huff to the seclusion of the senora’s 
work-basket, whence he glowered greenly on an 
unappreciative world. But Ray, all unconscious of 
his impotent wrath, gazed absently at a vacant arm- 


230 


Her American Daughter 


chair pushed back against the creamy plastered wall 
with the light from one small window falling 
obliquely over it. There — her fine old face in semi- 
shadow — Dolores had posed for her yesterday morn- 
ing, and another sitting had been promised for today, 
when the Saturday marketing was done. The clock in 
the comedor was now striking ten, so the young artist 
filled her palette, ranged her brushes and waited 
patiently for the senora’s home coming. 

She considered herself wonderfully fortunate in 
having so willing and beautiful a model under the 
same roof, for without Peter she would never go 
back to the Museum — Mr. Russell’s reluctant escort 
being now quite as undesirable as Teodoro’s pursuit. 
Teodoro! What a detestable name it was ! Theodore 
had always been rather pleasing to her because of its 
significance, its sonorous dignity; but the suppres- 
sion of the h, the flatting of the first vowel and the 
reiteration of the second, robbed it of all virility — 
by no other appellation could a man be quite so 
odious ! And to think that Mr. Russell should believe 
— as he so evidently did — that she had given him 
encouragement! Of course, the introduction had' 
been a mistake on her part; but the Spaniard had 
had the insolence to declare that no “caballero 
yankee” could force him to retire, and so she had 
chosen what seemed to her the most tactful and 
womanly course. Ever since Mr. Russell’s warning 
to her, on the evening of the riot, she had endured 
the Spaniard’s pursuit without complaint, trusting 
only in her own wit and her maidenly dignity to pro- 
tect her from his insolent attentions. Peter, she 


Her American Daughter 231 

knew, would have been quick to resent them for her, 
and she had believed that Mr. Russell — as Peter’s 
deputy! — would have felt the same, had she given 
him an inkling of the truth. But if she had, and 
the Spaniard had insulted him, or even — for Teo- 
doro had a thoroughly bad face, an assassin’s face ! 
(and she shuddered) — if anything serious had hap- 
pened, and she to blame for it, how could she ever 
have forgiven herself? Mr. Russell had said, too, 
that the — the maltreatment of an American might 
have serious consequences at a time like this, and 
she had felt the responsibilities of her citizenship 
weigh heavily upon her. It was very hard now to 
be so entirely misunderstood ! She wondered how a 
more sophisticated woman would have acted — Mrs. 
Dering, for instance. Ah ! but in no case would Mr. 
Russell have abandoned her to such dubious esquire- 
ship; instinct would have assured him that she 
found it objectionable. But an art student’s tastes 
were not supposed to be so nice! . . . The 

imputation left her sore. 

“Si ya tu quieres 
ser mi marido, 
lo que me dices 
mira bien !” 

Evidently, the little maid had recovered her 
breath ; she was now sweeping the kitchen floor, and 
her song was shrilled out in time to the strokes of her 
broom. 

“Lo que me dices, 
hombre querido, 
mira bien — 

6 quita, per Dio’!” 


232 


Her American Daughter 


The piercing strains, with their innumerable turns 
and quavers, continued incessantly for the next five 
minutes, distracting the ear like the loud skirling of a 
bag pipe; all lesser sounds became inaudible, and 
Ray heard neither the click of a latch key in the outer 
door nor the subsequent murmur of two low pitched 
voices on the other side of the yellow portieres. 

It was not the marketing that had detained the 
careful housemother ; for although she had chaffered 
many minutes over a pair of fat squabs with which 
she fondly hoped to tempt capricious appetites, it was 
not more than half past nine when Russell overtook 
her on the stairs. He lifted his hat with grave cour- 
tesy and tendered his assistance, but she smilingly 
waved him aside. 

“Not yet, senor mio ; I have still no need of that — 
the saints be praised !” She drew up her shapely fig- 
ure to its full height, which was very little short of 
his own. “I have climbed these steps for thirty 
years, but my heart is as sound and my muscles far 
firmer than when I first trod them as a woman newly 
wed. Moreover, senor, you may take my word for 
it, old eyes often see clearer than young ones!” To 
this speech her companion made no response, so they 
finished the ascent in silence. On the upper landing, 
however, Dolores paused, regarded him steadfastly 
and exclaimed : “Senor Rosail, will you let me say 
a word to you out here ?” 

“I am at your service,” was the somewhat grim 
reply, and for a moment the old Spanishwoman "hesi- 
tated; she was about to broach a subject of the 


Her American Daughter 


233 


utmost delicacy and the forbidding front of her lis- 
tener made it very difficult to proceed. Then, all at 
once, she seemed touched by a finer dignity, and a 
curious tenderness softened her face; she had lost 
sight of the man before her — who was so very differ- 
ent from her Jose — and was thinking only of what 
she could do to secure the happiness of the young 
girl who called her mother. 

Suppose anything had happened, more than thirty 
years ago, to make mischief between herself and 
Jose ! She might perhaps have loved again and mar- 
ried — some one else, but it would all have been sadly 
different; there was nothing in life so perfect as a 
first love wedded ! During these last few 

weeks she had seen — what she had seen. And now 
here were two young people, whom Heaven surely 
intended for each other, drifting apart for the want 
of a little word of explanation. Who could speak it 
if not she? 

No encouragement was to be had from Russell. 
As he waited there on the dim landing, latch key in 
hand, his clean shaven lips were firmly shut and 
between his level brows was a heavy wrinkle. 
Few persons could have held him there a moment 
after Ray’s name was mentioned ; but this dignified 
senora with her widow’s veil folded mantilla-wise 
over her silver hair, was not to be treated cavalierly. 
Dolores had an intuition of this — for no woman with 
any pretensions to charm can attain the age of sixty 
without discovering how far she may count on her 
personality to carry her through a difficult situation. 
With a tact that was as transparent as it was delicate, 


234 


Her American Daughter 


she avoided all comment on the relations, past or 
present, between her two American guests, and spoke 
only of her own intercourse with Ray, describing 
with gentle pathos and in picturesque idiom the 
storming of her own old heart by “the muchachita 
with gray eyes.” She allowed him to perceive how, 
from the first, she had been the proud repository of 
the senorita’s confidences, which she unblushingly 
proceeded to betray — for by this time she was con- 
vinced of her hearer’s sympathy. The latch key had 
returned to Russell’s pocket, the wrinkle had 
smoothed itself out of his forehead ; he interrupted 
her once or twice with a brief question, followed by 
an impatient, “Go on — I understand!” and Dolores 
made good use of his permission. With her serious 
face illumined, her language and gestures growing 
more and more dramatic, she gave him the whole 
history of the mysterious Teodoro — for whom she 
plainly entertained the most profound contempt — 
and explained how the senorita had endured his pur- 
suit in silent embarrassment rather than make herself 
a cause of contention between her American friends 
and any pillo malvado! 

The effect of this revelation puzzled her at first, 
her companion listened with such grave intentness. 
“And the other afternoon — ” he asked. 

Dolores hesitated. “If I tell you all, caballero, you 
will do nothing rash to distress the senorita?” 

“To distress her !” echoed Russell, a warm wonder 
dawning in his eyes. “Certainly not. I give you my 
word of honor.” 


Her American Daughter 235 

Then, having arrived at the climax of her story, 
she told impressively of the Spaniard’s joining Ray 
at the Museum, that being “a privilege she allowed to 
other Caballeros,” of his walking beside her in thick 
skinned indifference to snubs, of his final threat of 
dire vengeance against any “caballero yankee” who 
should presume to interfere with him, and of Ray’s 
desperate expedient to avert an unpleasant scene and 
its possible consequences. 

The masculine mind is proverbially unskillful in 
fathoming the uttermost depths of a woman’s 
motive; but Russell, in a plunge of blind bewilder- 
ment, grasped one blissful thought over which he 
gloated like a diver with his first found pearl : Ray’s 
chief fear that afternoon had been for the possible 
consequences to himself! He understood now the 
break in her soft voice, the bravado of her smile, and 
although immeasurably provoked with her for pay- 
ing heed to the Spaniard’s futile threat, he found her 
diplomacy adorable since it was assumed for his sake 
and not her own. 

The glow of his new content had irradiated the 
dark stairway and the dingy plastered walls had 
given place to vistas of a delectable future when he 
grew aware that the senora was studying him with 
shrewd bright eyes ; immediately his forehead 
became suffused, he fumbled hastily for his latch key, 
pushed open the heavy door and was greeted on the 
threshold by Benita’s jubilant treble. 

Possibly, the words of the foolish little song may 
have suggested an idea to Dolores, or perhaps she 
was unaware of the full measure of her success ; for 


236 


Her American Daughter 


as they entered the comedor she laid a detaining hand 
on Russell’s arm. Did the senor understand why she 
had made this explanation ? — He thought so. — Then 
what did he intend to do ? 

The point blank question took him aback, some- 
what. Hitherto, he had accepted her interference in 
a spirit of vague and unconfessed gratitude ; now it 
struck him that she was needlessly pertinacious: 
what he should do next was entirely his own affair ! 
So, withdrawing himself from her grasp, he replied 
discouragingly : “Nothing at all, senora.” 

San Antonio hear him! — and the old Spanish- 
woman became visibly indignant. Did the senor 
expect a trouble of this kind to heal itself? For 
nearly two days he had held himself aloof in frozen 
and offended silence. Did he think the child had 
not seen it ? did he suppose he had only to smile for- 
giveness when it suited him? what did he imagine 
a woman was made of? There was but one way now 
to heal the breach, and that was to go at once, this 
very day, and say to her, “Consolation of my soul, 
if I have doubted thee for a moment it was because 
of the infinitude of my loves Behold me at thy feet !” 

Russell winced. He had nothing in common with 
the Spanish temperament, and to him the words, the 
tone, the pose suggested were all most unpleasantly 
melodramatic. Moreover, he very naturally resented 
her appointing the time for him to speak ; for to con- 
ceal the day and the hour is the instinct of all lovers. 
As he stood there with one hand on the knob of his 
chamber door, he rebelled against his enforced con- 
tact, his involuntary intimacy with the other inmates 


Her American Daughter 


237 


of this bourgeois household — his utter lack of all real 
privacy ! When he did speak to Ray, must it be under 
the very eye of Dolores and within hearing of the 
kitchen maid’s ear-splitting song — the words of 
which were so brutally apposite ? 

“Si ya tu quieres 
ser mi marido 
lo que me dices 
mira bien! 

lo que me dices, 
hombre querido, 
mira bien 
6 quita — ” 

Just then, for no obvious reason, the shrill pipe 
was cut off, — it was as if the vox humana stop of an 
organ had been suddenly closed. Immediately, a 
chorus of hitherto inaudible sounds burst into promi- 
nence. Tic tac! said the clock on the sideboard shelf. 
Tic tac . . . tic tac . . . tic tac . . 

He could hear the Tweet-tweeeet ! of an amorous 
canary, and the droning of a fly against the window 
pane. 

“Really, senora, I appreciate your kind intention” 
— his irritated voice belied the words — “but I don’t 
think you understand either Miss Woodward or 
myself.” 

“Dios mio!” cried Dolores wrathfully, “I under- 
stand this much, that the heart of la pobrecita is deso- 
lated !” 

If he could have found a fit response, there was 
no time in which to make it; for a chair scraped 


238 Her American Daughter 

noisily on the tiled floor of the passage and with a 
flurry of skirts, a low, shocked cry of “Senora! 
senora !” Ray herself appeared in the doorway. There 
was something so tragic in her rigid pose, in the 
spread of her young arms, in the tense clutch of her 
slim fingers dragging back the faded portieres, some- 
thing so condemnatory in the flash of the gray eyes 
that Dolores — who had started forward with one 
hand outstretched to forbid the unmaidenly intrusion 
— paused abruptly. Her arm dropped weakly to her 
side, and a swift breaking up of the lines in her 
strong old face, a pathetic shrinking of the tall figure, 
betrayed her instant recollection that this child was 
not bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, to be 
judged by the light of her own traditions. 

“Que disparate — ” began Ray chokingly, “que 
mortificacion ! Oh, senora — senora, I have no 
words!” And indeed, what chance had strange 
vocabulary and foreign idiom at such a moment? 
She stood there, white and quivering, an inarticulate 
young protest. 

Dolores sank into a chair beside the table. “Hija !” 
she faltered in deep distress, “hija mia !” 

“But you , senora, you!” and Ray struck her palm 
against the casing of the door. 

Russell felt his heart leap in sympathy with the 
cry — it was the Et tu, Brute! the bitterness of 
betrayal, the breaking down of a trust ; but he real- 
ized their widely differing points of view and under- 
stood, as Ray could not, how the old Spanish- 
woman’s mother-instinct had carried her too far. He 
still held his own peace from a vague notion that 


Her American Daughter 


239 


least said was soonest mended ; for men — possessing 
as they do the right of free speech at all seasons — 
sometimes overestimate the value of silence. While 
he hesitated, the shamed color flew into Ray's cheek 
— he had suddenly loomed large on her horizon. 

“Oh-h !” she cried, in a horrified whisper, shrink- 
ing away with her hands to her face ; and the yellow 
portieres fell together in blank and stolid folds. They 
were still swaying mutely when Russell tore them 
aside and gazed up and down the empty passage, at 
the deserted easel, the overturned chair, the paint 
brushes scattered over the floor and the palette set 
with oily dabs of color that a surreptitious kitten was 
investigating. 

He understood it all and was seized with an 
unreasoning anger against himself and his innocent 
accomplice, who lifted a piteous face as he strode past 
her, demanding what she had done and what were 
they to do. 

“God knows!" was the comfort he vouchsafed, 
with a slam of his chamber door. 

No trouble is ever rendered more sufferable by the 
thought that we ourselves are in a large measure to 
blame. Russell’s responsibility was perhaps the least 
of any, but he held himself at fault for his silence 
when a few English words might have saved the day. 
However, he was rather less cast down than he had 
recently been, for not only was he assured of Ray’s 
transparent truth, but he felt a conviction stronger 
than ever that she cared for him — everything went to 
prove it. He believed that Dolores, in that last unfor- 


240 


Her American Daughter 


tunate speech, had revealed only her own opinion 
and not any confidence reposed in her; for, open as 
Ray was, she would certainly have stopped short of 
the supreme confession. But had she been perfectly 
indifferent to him she would have been less stung by 
the betrayal. He could well understand how an 
impulse of the moment had carried her away, also 
that the after memory of her intrusion would be 
something intolerable. 

The remainder of the morning he spent in com- 
posing letters to her, letters which he immediately 
destroyed ; for, writer as he was by profession, noth- 
ing now that pen or ink could express seemed ade- 
quately simple and sincere. 

At one o’clock, Benita announced “Almuerzo, 
senor!” in a subdued and melancholy whisper, as 
though even the kitchen had been penetrated by the 
universal gloom. Russell pushed his door ajar and, 
perceiving Don Antonio alone at the table, decided — 
being urged thereto by the pangs of hunger — to join 
him. A fourth occupant of the comedor was a dis- 
consolate kitten, with Prussian blue whiskers and a 
bright vermilion paw, whom the little maid, at inter- 
vals during the otherwise silent meal, chased round 
the room from corner to corner by way of relieving 
her excessive sympathies. 

Just what trouble had befallen them, Benita 
couldn’t divine ; she knew only that the senorita was 
locked in her room, and that the senora, with a look 
of heart-break in her eyes, had been sitting straight 
and silent for the last two hours in her armchair 
in the hall. But those two hours had been bleak and 


Her American Daughter 241 

bitter to Dolores : in humble and unavailing regret, 
she had ventured to Ray’s door, and there she had 
been greeted by an outburst of unintelligible English 
words — words that, could she have known, held far 
less of blame than of self reproach ; but, being wholly 
uncomprehended and muted once by a soundless sob, 
they had stricken the poor woman to the soul. Her 
daughter? this white faced young foreigner? Ah, 
Mother of sorrows ! 

To and fro, between the kitchen and the comedor, 
Benita went softly on deprecating feet, and the 
dishes were never so swiftly and noiselessly cleared 
away. In an incredibly short time the last crumb 
had been swept up, the blue table cover spread, the 
window shades drawn down and Michito banished 
from his ultimate retreat. For a while, then, the old 
clock had much ado to fill the silence ; but when the 
hour hand had crept round the gaudy dial to the 
figure three, Russell’s door was again pushed open, 
and in a voice restrained but full of determination, he 
called for the little maid. 

“Benita,” he said, “you will have the kindness to 
take this note to the senorita and wait for a reply.” 

“Now may heaven be thanked !” thought the Span- 
ish girl devoutly, “for at last somebody has fl begun to 
do something to set matters straight !” and with that 
she made all haste to deliver the missive, which 
despite the hours spent over its composition was 
brevity itself. 


242 Her American Daughter 

“Dear Miss Woodward : 

“I have a confession to make. Won’t you consent 
to see me — if only for five minutes ? 

“Yours faithfully, 

“E. R.” 

To the writer’s consciousness, the period of 
Benita’s absence bore no relation to time — it was 
subtracted from eternity. His feet, however, in their 
measured pace around the dining table, must have 
traveled something less than a mile, and the old clock 
had ticked off about fifteen minutes, when the reply 
was brought to him. It covered two sides of a sheet 
of note paper. 

“Dear Mr. Russell : 

“It is I who should apologize for my involuntary 
eavesdropping and very undignified intrusion this 
forenoon. I ought to have realized that you would 
never dream of taking literally any remark of the sen- 
ora’s, for you know so much better than I do that no 
Spanish expression is ever exactly translatable into 
our simpler, saner English tongue. Dolores has 
always thought in superlatives; what she probably 
meant was that I have felt a trifle hurt at your misun- 
derstanding me the other afternoon. I may add here 
that I was also surprised, for such stupidity as mine 
ought to have been easily fathomed by you. But if 
this week spent as Peter’s deputy has convinced you 


Her American Daughter 243 

that I am far too troublesome a charge to be imposed 
on a comparative stranger, you will be perfectly jus- 
tified in sending in your resignation. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Raven Woodward.” 

Three times Russell read this note ; then, putting it 
carefully in his pocket, he took up his hat, left the 
house and, that evening, dined at a cafe. 


CHAPTER XXII 


As the handful of worshippers emerged from the 
chapel-room of the British Legation at the close of 
the service next morning, they must all have 
observed, in the ill lighted corridor, a tall figure 
standing sentry with arms folded across the chest, 
silk hat depending from the gloved fingers half hid- 
den beneath the left elbow, bared head thrown 
slightly forward, chin depressed and dark eyes under 
level blows watching the doorway until the youngest 
member of the congregation made her tardy exit. 
Then, had any of them looked back for a moment, 
they would have seen that last comer pause abruptly 
on the threshold, while a flush, which suggested the 
after glow of a red sunset, dyed her cheeks and brow 
and even the little shell like ears; and they would 
have heard a low-breathed You! uttered in very evi- 
dent dismay, after which the vivid color slowly 
faded. 

“Good morning !” the man exclaimed, in a tone 
that would have been triumphant had it been less sub- 
dued. “Didn’t you know I would be here?” 

“I had no idea you were so regular in your attend- 
ance,” was the dignified evasion. “That was a very 
good sermon we had today.” 


Her American Daughter 245 

“Sorry I didn’t hear it; but I arrived pretty late 
and for the last twenty minutes I’ve been walking 
post outside. Shall we go on, now?” he added with 
calm assurance, and resuming his hat fell into step 
with her as they passed out of the building. On the 
pavement a few of the congregation were loitering 
still, and the proximity of English ears imposed a 
temporary silence. Ray’s heart was beating pain- 
fully; this untoward situation was of her making, so 
for her pride’s sake she struggled to take control. 

“Let us cross over,” she proposed. “It is signifi- 
cant of Spring’s progress that now one always 
chooses the shady side. But what a perfect day ! Is 
it never going to rain again? For more than six 
weeks I haven’t seen a cloud.” 

“True,” said Russell, while he studied her face, 
“it hasn’t rained since — ” 

“Since the beginning of Lent.” 

“Since we turned over that new leaf,” he finished 
meaningly, and was at once rewarded by a calcium 
light effect. 

“Oh, please — ” with a prohibitory gesture, “if 
there’s any moral hiding under that, don’t disturb it ! 
I always find it safer to let sleeping morals lie — they 
generally do, in any case, you know!” and she 
laughed suddenly; it was an agitato performance, 
like the musical protest of a glass chandelier when a 
daring breeze has thrown all its pendants into tink- 
ling confusion. 

Russell made no answer ; he was strangely moved 
by her pluck, her defiatory dignity, behind which he 
was certain that he caught glimpses of some shrink- 


246 Her American Daughter 

ing, quivering, wounded thing : but as he walked on 
at her side down the quiet street, he had a foreboding 
that this mood of hers was imperiling his cause. He 
was fearful of what might happen when he should 
break through her frail defenses ; and yet, this oppor- 
tunity, long waited for, must not be thrown away. 

“Miss Woodward/' he said earnestly, interrupt- 
ing another brave little jest, “what do you under- 
stand by a comparative stranger?” 

Ray drew herself together as though in expecta- 
tion of a blow. “Why, a person — ” she guardedly 
defined, “a person of whom one knows — only the 
outside." 

“After three months," mused Russell, “that is — 
discouraging. But it might have been worse. I was 
afraid, from your refusal to see me yesterday, that 
you would say : A person of whom one is unwilling 
to know more than the outside. ... I had 
written you that I wanted to make a confession." 

“Let yesterday go, if you please ; I would rather 
forget it!" her voice was sharp and husky, all its 
musical quality dulled by emotional strain. “I wish I 
could wipe out all its consequences, but I’m afraid 
there is one I can never undo — I have deeply 
wounded the poor senora !" She was winking rap- 
idly now, for it was high tide in the gray eyes. 

Russell’s heart ached over her as he said regret- 
fully, “I also am to blame for that." 

“No — oh, no !" declared Ray. “You couldn’t pos- 
sibly understand ... It was afterwards that 
I — I spoke English to her ; but I didn’t know it — at 
the time," and she bit her lip in haste, her deep con- 


Her American Daughter 


247 


trition blinding her entirely to the revelation in her 
words, to the scene they conjured up for the man 
beside her. A moment later, she added in her natural 
tone: “The senora has always been so very, very 
good to me that I can never forgive myself for let- 
ting such a — a trifle come between us. But there ! 
that is my personal regret ; you have nothing to do 
with it.” 

“You are determined then — ” he gently 
demanded, “to keep me outside the bars? Has it 
occurred to you that that definition of yours may be 
one-sided in its application?” Though he waited 
patiently she made no response, so at length he said 
in the same tone of careful restraint : “You are no 
stranger to me, Miss — Ray.” 

Something of her former defiance returned to her 
then. “Of course,” she admitted, “human nature is 
your especial study; you have the advantage of me 
in your clearer perceptions.” 

“No!” the disclaimer was very earnest, “my per- 
ceptions are often sadly befogged. It is only in your 
direction that — love has opened up a vista. This was 
the confession I wanted you to hear yesterday.” And 
now that the words were spoken all his pulses seemed 
to have stopped. Her face was turned away from 
him, but he could see two slender gray-gloved hands 
locked convulsively over a well worn morocco prayer 
book. Presently she threw back her head, facing him 
bravely; and he fancied he could see, through the 
clear eyes, her wounded pride leap from its covert. 

“It is what I most wished to avoid !” she declared. 
“What am I to say — how can I make you understand 


248 


Her American Daughter 


that I never expected, never desired to hear such 
words from you ? The senora’s mistake was excusa- 
ble in one of her nationality; she thinks the whole 
world was made for love; she is incapable of under- 
standing a friendship such as ours Oh ! 

yes, I admit the friendship — it was very pleasant 
until you spoiled it; but I never supposed it meant 
more than the mutual liking of two people whose 
tastes were rather congenial and who were tempo- 
rarily forced into each other’s society. And why 
should it? We are so different, so far apart in reality ; 
everything in my life that really counts is unknown 
to you ; you are almost a sealed book to me ; in many 
things we are antagonistic — and the little I do know 
of your opinions has hurt me inexpressibly ! Between 
us is a great gulf fixed, which is bridged only by the 
thin plank of a casual friendship ... I won- 
der you haven’t realized all this ! I have gone over it 
and over it a thousand times, and I can find nothing 
in my speech or manner during these three months 
to justify you in thinking that — that I care in any 
other way, or that you are called upon to tax your 
chivalry so far as to — to pretend that you — love 
me!” 

“My chivalry!” Russell interjected; he had made 
no attempt before to check the agitated torrent of her 
words, but now a hot incredulity took possession of 
him. “My chivalry!” he cried. “Do you know what 
you are saying? To pretend to a love that one 
doesn’t feel is not quite so easy nowadays as binding 
a lady’s favor to one’s helmet ! Perhaps 

I ought to thank you for the implied compliment, but 


Her American Daughter 249 

God knows I don’t deserve it ! I hope I have always 
shown to women — all women — the courtesy that is 
their due; but beyond that — ” he interrupted him- 
self with a forced laugh, “beyond that, I am a man 
like any other ! ... What that fellow across 

the street probably feels for his lady love up there 
in the balcony, and what I have felt for you since — 
since that first morning in Tangier, are fundament- 
ally the same emotion ; we have our different ways of 
showing it, that’s all. You may flout me, if you 
choose, as she does him; but, for heaven’s sake, 
don't accuse me of any such quixotic, hero-of- 
romance attitude, for you wrong yourself in doing 
so.” 

Ray had no answer for him then ; she was looking 
very blanched and weary, and a slight shiver ran 
over her as she looked across at the pretty love scene 
that was being so gaily and shamelessly acted on the 
sunnier side of the street. 

In a second story balcony, overflowing with sweet 
scented geraniums and hung with a tangle of flower- 
ing vines, sat a black-haired, sunburned Madrilena, 
her plump elbows resting on the iron railing, her 
brown hands clasped under her rounded chin; and 
below her on the pavement, standing bareheaded in 
the hot sunshine with his sombrero held out in sup- 
plication, was a good looking mozo who, from the 
jauntiness of his short velvet jacket and the con- 
spicuous newness of his crimson neck kerchief, had 
evidently dressed to please a sweetheart’s eye. “Give 
me an alms, a tiny alms, of your charity, most beau- 
tiful in the world!” he was demanding at the 


250 


Her American Daughter 


top of his lusty young voice. But the girl in the bal- 
cony shook her head with a laugh. “Excuse me for 
God’s sake, little brother ! I have nothing for you 
today!” — “Not even a single floweret, most cruel 
one?” — “Nothing, good beggar, nothing at all!” but 
even as she spoke, another vigorous shake dislodged 
from her temple a red geranium bloom that was 
tucked too loosely in the glossy braids. It fell like a 
glowing spark through the sunlit air and the lad 
beneath caught it deftly in the crown of his som- 
brero. 

The other two, who walked silently along the 
shadowed pavement, could hear his triumphant 
laughter and his exuberant thanks until they turned 
the corner into another street; then, with a sudden 
impulse caught, perhaps, from the Spanish lad’s 
young ardor, Russell bent over his companion. 

“Ray,” he said, “if I had spoken last Sunday, 
would your answer have been the same ? There was 
no preposterous gulf between us then. If you will 
think of yesterday, remember that Dolores made no 
mistake about my feelings ! Was she wholly wrong 
about yours ?” 

“I have just said so!” she cried in a shaken voice 
with lips that trembled at the corners. “I am very, 
very sorry, but — I don’t see how I can unsay it !” 

He gazed down at her in dumb discontent; she 
was such a little slim white thing to be so dear, so 
all-essential. “Oh! well,” he sighed at last, “I had 
been foolish enough to hope; but of course — Are 
you cold ? Let us cross back into the sunshine.” 


Her American Daughter 


251 


Ray shook her head. “It’s not worth while ; we 
are so near home — I mean, so near the Calle Mayor.” 

At the amendment he smiled faintly. “I suppose 
you begrudge that word for any but its most sacred 
uses.” 

“Ah, yes,” she agreed, biting her lips again ; and 
as they hurried through the loitering crowds on the 
Puerta del Sol, she held her head erect and fixed her 
eyes steadily on some invisible point moving always 
in advance. They both drew a sigh of relief on 
reaching the hospitable doorway where the old por- 
tero peacefully slept in his chair. 

Silently they mounted the worn wooden steps to 
the landing marked Tercero, and somehow the plas- 
tered walls had never seemed so dingy. As Ray put 
out her hand to the bell by the iron grating — that 
only yesterday had seemed to her companion the 
wicket of Paradise — he checked her with a sadly 
humorous smile. 

“Don’t ring,” he besought, “I have the key — and 
I don’t think I could endure Benita’s sympathetic eye 
just now. Tomorrow I shall move back to my old 
quarters. But if I can ever be of any use — as Peter’s 
deputy, you know — you mustn’t hesitate to send for 
me — No, I’m not coming in. Goodbye!” 

“Goodbye,” she faltered, giving him her hand. 

For a long moment he held fast to the slender gray- 
gloved fingers; then, dropping them suddenly, he 
wheeled and went down the stair. One backward 
glance would have shown him enough to bring him 
swiftly to her side again ; but his own pride, like a 
vice, was holding his face to the front. 


252 


Her American Daughter 


About midnight, when the great outer doors on the 
Calle Mayor were securely locked and the portero 
was dreaming in his bed, the sereno patrolling the 
street answered a whistled summons, and setting 
down his turreted lanthorn on the pavement and 
leaning lazily on his spear, produced from his girdle 
a ponderous key and then a small wax taper by the 
light of which Russell climbed again to spend his last 
night under Dolores’ roof. The next morning, Ray 
saw only an empty coffee cup on the breakfast table 
and heard nothing but the sound of heavy, shuffling 
feet in the hall as the desk with so many pigeon holes 
— that Benita had never been allowed to dust — was 
carried away to the hotel. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Ten days more of cloudless weather! Spring’s 
April mood this year was altogether sunny and 
smiling — heartlessly smiling, in the face of parched 
and drooping fields that waited vainly for her pitiful 
tears. Beyond the Guadarrama mountains, on the 
treeless, wind-blown plains of Old Castile, the wheat 
and barley sown in the preceding autumn had 
patiently struggled upward through the hard dry 
soil, only to wilt and die now in the golden glare. 
The usual season for life-giving rains was passing 
away without a single shower, and the whole land 
was athirst, — even the rich hillsides of Andalusia 
and the broad pastures of the west ; and, in a country 
devoted so largely to agricultural pursuits, this meant 
widespread ruin and distress. The chief sufferers 
were probably small farmers owning only a few 
hectares of arable land, — their methods of cultivation 
being primitive in the extreme ; but even where irri- 
gation was resorted to, a prolonged drought entailed 
great loss. And so this unfortunate country, saddled 
as it was with debt, troubled with internal disaffec- 
tion and harassed by a war that was sapping its very 
life blood, was now confronted with a new danger — 
the starvation of man and beast. Already the price 
of flour had risen, and the rolls on the senora’s break- 
fast table each cost two centimos instead of one. 


254 Her American Daughter 

And this was at a time, too, when Dolores — with 
her house emptied of all guests but Don Antonio and 
the American girl — had other anxieties of her own. 
Pablo's injury had proven far more serious than was 
at first supposed; he was still bound to his crutch, 
with the disheartening prospect of an incurable lame- 
ness. His eldest child, Jose — named for the senora’s 
husband — had bravely assumed the care of the farm ; 
but with a rainless spring, the odds were hopelessly 
against him : besides the loss of the crop, it meant 
the sacrifice of the two mules and the little burro, who 
would soon be eating their heads off, with provender 
so scarce. Bearing all this in mind, the senora added 
to her daily supplications an earnest prayer for rain ; 
and, every morning, as she threw open her window 
and looked up at the smiling heavens, her heart would 
sink and her trust, for one moment, waver, — for 
surely the blessed saints were grown very hard of 
hearing ! 

The same prayer was regularly offered up in all 
the churches of the city; but the Madrilenians, for 
the most part, seemed to feel very little concern. 
With a faith so sublime that it amounted to irrespon- 
sibility, they ejaculated, “God help us, or we starve 
next year!" and at the same moment jingled the 
pesetas in their pockets and spent them with a lavish 
hand. For the madness of the springtime was in 
their blood; love and laughter filled the perfumed 
air; in the Recoletos, the chestnut trees tossed their 
zinnober plumes over an army of mantillas and som- 
breros; on the Prado, around the little booths and 


Her American Daughter 


255 


tables, lingered a gay crowd from morning till night ; 
every beggar in town had his capa in pawn and was 
living merrily on the proceeds. 

But the pleasure seekers of a community are only 
the froth upon the cup, hiding much good wine and 
true — and some dregs of bitterness. .To many a 
heart in Madrid, that springtime was a mockery. 
The dressmaker’s apprentice, whom Ray met one 
afternoon creeping softly down the stairway from 
her day’s work in the attic, lifted dumb eyes of misery 
at the young foreigner’s gentle questioning; her 
sweetheart’s name had been listed once again, 
amongst those who have been granted their long 
furlough. 

As the two girls clasped hands there on the dim 
landing, to one of them there came a revelation — of 
the dignity of love, the inevitability of sorrow and 
the paltriness of pride ; and that night she wept very 
long and bitterly to think that, like most of life’s 
lessons, this was learned too late! During these 
April days an unwonted reserve had grown around 
her; her relations with the senora, too, were some- 
what changed : the words hija and madre had fallen 
into a conscious desuetude for which neither Ray nor 
Dolores was alone responsible, and which was a 
source of much pain to both. The old Spanish 
woman had put on a new punctiliousness toward her 
young guest ; while lavishing even greater care upon 
her comfort and security she approached her with 
none of the old tender familiarities, and Ray was 
diffident of inviting them. Mr. Russell’s name was 
never mentioned; but sometimes, looking up from 


256 Her American Daughter 

her easel, Ray would surprise a wistful regret in the 
senora’s eyes, and then Dolores would leave her chair 
and try to draw the palette from the young artist's 
hand, saying: “You are tired, senorita; your face 
shows it. Rest now, and let me bring you a glass 
of wine and a bit of cake, or an orange — just an 
orange and a few grapes to put strength into your 
fingers !” At which Ray would smile and shake 
her head, declaring that her hand had never been 
so steady nor her eye so true. And indeed, this 
appeared to be the case. She was working on this 
portrait with a passionate fervor, seeming to regard 
it in the light of an expiation — to Dolores and to 
Art. Into it she put all the lessons of the past three 
months — the added technical skill resulting from 
faithful effort, an honest imitation of the style of the 
great master she had studied, a tender admiration 
for the mellowed beauty of her old model and some- 
thing more that was indefinable — something that 
thrilled from her heart to her finger tips, giving 
reverence to her every touch. 

On the last Friday in April, she was cleaning* her 
palette after a hard morning’s work when she heard 
a familiar voice in the hall exclaiming cheerily: 
“Hello! Benita, where’s Miss Ray?” 

“Peter!” she cried, rushing out with her usual 
impetuosity, “Why, Peter ! What a delightful sur- 
prise! You didn’t write me you were coming — but 
oh, you dear, dimpled, big brown Brobdingnagian 
cherub, I am so glad to see you !” 

“Don’t take it all out in adjectives!” he urged 
laughingly, prisoning her outstretched hand in a 


Her American Daughter 


257 


hearty clasp. “Why, from the way you came flying 
through the door just now, I thought you meant to 
give a fellow a welcome worth having.” 

“If you are not satisfied with this , sir — ” and she 
retreated promptly to a safer distance, “you must 
nibble that Wonderland mushroom and shrink to 
your proper size — in knickerbockers and frills ! But 
where are the Staffords? Have you left them 
behind ?” 

“Well, you see, it was this way. Stafford’s 
improved wonderfully since the good news came 
from the Salon ; he’s fit for work again — in modera- 
tion, and he thought this one week could be spent 
more profitably in Seville. But I knew you were 
pining for the sight of me — eh? Well then, I was 
pining for the sight of you , so I decided to come on 
ahead. I’ve promised to pack up the studio here and 
have everything shipped to Paris, and he and Mrs. 
S. will join us on today week — that’ll be the first of 
May. Do you think you could be ready to leave 
Madrid by the fifth?” 

“To leave — Madrid !” she dully echoed. “To part 
with Dolores and — and begin all over again among 
strangers in another foreign city! Oh, Peter, I do 
dread it ! . . . But of course, I can be ready any 

day Mr. Stafford appoints.” 

“Then that’s settled,” said Peter, always brisk and 
business-like. “Don’t fret over it, Miss Ray — we’ll 
soon find some nice old madame to take the senora’s 
place. Just think how much worse you would feel 
if you were parting from me” and his blue eyes 


258 


Her American Daughter 


twinkled with happy impudence. “Now give us the 
news. But stop — is Russell in ? I have a letter for 
him.” 

Ray caught her breath quickly. For days she had 
been anticipating this scene and rehearsing her 
answer to the inevitable question; but now it was 
very hard to adapt her voice to the careless words, 
“Didn’t I write you that he had moved back to the 
hotel?” 

“What!” cried Peter, and thrusting his hands in 
his pockets he whistled a prolonged note of astonish- 
ment. At her explanation, which was fluent but 
evasive, he shook his head in manifest dubiety; for 
in the distressed color of her cheek quite another 
story was legible. “Oh, lord!” he inly ejaculated, 
“what an ass I’ve been not to see this coming ! Love 
passages and a rumpus — poor Russell!” and he 
shook his head again. 

“But the most important news — ” she hurriedly 
continued, “is that Don Francisco returned yester- 
day — a Benedict. He married his cousin three 
weeks ago, made his will and has come back alone to 
his duty before the end of the honeymoon.” 

“Francisco be hanged!” Peter was staring 
gloomily at the door of Russell’s deserted chamber. 

“Poor fellow !” murmured Ray. “Did you know 
he was ordered to Cuba in June?” 

“No, I didn’t. But if this is a marriage of con- 
venience, I dare say he’ll be glad to go. Anyhow, 
if he isn’t first hanged or shot he’ll probably soon 
choke himself to death over a plate of garbanzos. 
I’m not wasting my sympathies on any blamed 


Her American Daughter 


259 


Spaniard just at present. It's a good thing we are 
going so soon ; I hope there’ll be some peace and quiet 
when we get to Paris, for these continual changes 
play the mischief with one’s work. But I’ll be sorry 
to see the last of Russell — he isn’t the sort of fellow 
to be met with every day. Stafford thinks the world 
and all of him — and with good reason. By the way, 
I knocked off a pretty nice sketch myself, last week, 
and Stafford’s going to work it in with his own 
illustrations, if Russell fancies it. We’ve been in 
quite a millennial mood down in Seville, everybody 
doing unto others as they’d like to be done by — all 
but Mrs. Dering, who’s been leading Dr. Hazeldean 
a dance. Strikes me what upset the garden of Eden 
was the woman and not the serpent ; Adam and the 
whole menagerie might have been there yet.” 

“You speak feelinp-lv. What woman has invaded 
your Eden? — Miss Gladys Hazeldean?” 

Then it was Peter’s turn to blush. “Well, hardly. 
She may have looked over the garden wall, for she’s 
awfully pretty and pleasant; but I don’t suppose I’ll 
ever see her again after she leaves Madrid.” 

“She’s coming here ?” 

“She’s here now. We all came up in the same 
train — Mrs. Dering and her aunt and the Hazeldeans 
and me,” he concluded, reckless of grammar. 

“So it zvasn’t for my sake that you hurried on 
ahead. Oh, Peter! that was disingenuous of you. 
I’m afraid you’re growing up !” 

“Heaven forbid !” he answered, straightening his 
lithe young figure. “I can’t afford to, you know — 
can’t afford to do anything but just kick up my heels 


260 


Her American Daughter 


when I get a chance. What’s more, I must manage 
to sell some canvases in Paris — on any terms. It’s 
all very well for Stafford, at his age, to be holding 
his pictures at a price ; but I’m quite willing to let a 
few of my earlier master-pieces go for a song — I’m 
sure there’s precedent for it ! But I say, what work 
have you been after since I left ? Did you ever paint 
that sketch of the senora?” 

“Come and see,” and she led him out into the hall 
where, on her easel, the painting rested ; it was con- 
siderably more than a sketch, yet by no means a 
highly finished portrait. Ray drew up the nearest 
window shade, pulled the easel into a better light 
and, stepping aside, waited anxiously for Peter’s 
criticism. 

Whistling softly, he studied it for nearly five 
minutes; then, turning on his heel, stared hard at 
the slim girl behind him. 

“It’s great !” he said earnestly. “Gospel English — 
it’s great! I didn’t know you had it in you, — 
Stafford’ll be proud of his pupil. We were talking 
about you just the other day, and he said that 
although your work was apt to be unequal, it occa- 
sionally showed touches of something like genius. 
Every Monday, for instance, you sketched in the new 
model with spirit and enthusiasm, and on Saturdays 
your last study was inspired by a sort of desperate 
courage — .” 

“But my Thursday’s and Friday’s work was 
usually a total failure; I know that. At one time 
I used to think it was my being a woman that 
made me incapable of more sustained effort, but now 


Her American Daughter 261 

I believe temperament has most to do with it. This 
time my enthusiasm didn’t give out, and — I needed 
all my courage from the start. You can’t realize, 
Peter, what I’ve put into this picture. I don’t believe 
I’ll ever do anything better !” 

Her companion again shifted his eyes from the 
canvas to her face, which he scrutinized with 
brotherly freedom. “I’m afraid, little girl, you’ve 
put in considerable flesh and blood ; you are not near 
so blooming as when I left you. But as to your 
never doing better, that’s nonsense. Why, this is 
only the result of your winter’s study; I can see in 
every touch the influence of Velazquez and Ribera.” 

“Not Ribera, I think; his brush is so often cruel, 
while Velazquez never is — whatever his subject.” 

“Well, perhaps so. I know Stafford will say your 
treatment of the face and hands is ‘poetic.’ I like 
immensely that plain black drapery about the head ; 
and, in spite of its being so very sorrowful, the whole 
pose is dignified, distinguished .... Do you 
know, I think you could get it into the Salon? It’s 
too late for this year, of course ; but I doubt if you 
do paint anything better in the next six or eight 
months. For myself, I’ve always believed more in 
grind than in inspiration , but you are so differently 
constituted. Look here, Miss Ray — ” he took her 
gently by one slender wrist and held up her hand 
before the window. “What is this made of, any- 
how ? Compared with this big, brawny fist of mine 
it’s like one of those pink blossoms yonder in the 
senora’s flower pot — I could crush it between my 
finger and thumb. Talk about sustained effort! 


262 Her American Daughter 

Why, a little more of this sort of thing and you’d go 
out like a snuffed candle. I’ll bet you’ve been dream- 
ing at night of every stroke you made by day !” 

She laughed guiltily, a faint blush warming her 
pale cheeks. “For a cherub, Peter, you are growing 
too clever by far. But do you really think this 
portrait would stand any chance with a Parisian 
jury ?” 

“It’s worth trying. You remember Watson — 
'Grannie’ Watson? I hear he has something now 
at the Champ-de-Mars ; and it’s all on the strength 
of his New York training, for he came abroad only 
six months ago. He was always a capital draughts- 
man, but I’ve never seen a canvas of his that was a 
patch on this. Ask Stafford.” 

“I certainly will,” she said, with smiling skepti- 
cism. “You are a charming critic, but too partial 
entirely.” 

Nevertheless, she began to build much hope on 
Peter’s honest commendation. She could see with 
her own eyes that in technique this far surpassed 
anything that she had previously done; and as to 
her achievement of that subtle quality which Mr. 
Stafford always summed up in the word poetic , she 
had soon the convincing testimony of the senora 
herself. 

The final sitting took place on the following day ; 
and, when it was over and Ray had put aside her 
brushes, Dolores came and stood in silent contem- 
plation before her counterfeit. When asked, very 
timidly, for an expression of opinion, she slowly 
answered : “I think, senorita, that — if the spirits of 


Her American Daughter 


263 


the faithful departed are ever permitted to look 
down upon those they have left behind, and if my Jose 
could behold me once again — I should wish him to 
see me thus. For then, not the fading and withering 
of the flesh would be most evident, nor the weariness 
of a lonely widowhood, but the love that is yet in my 
heart for him — and the hope that is keeping it alive !” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


It was mid-afternoon on the Prado, and the yellow 
sunlight was blazing and quivering in the open or 
sifting like gold dust through the leafy aisles. The 
air was warm and still and dry. At either end of the 
great square, where the fountains of Neptune and 
Cybele tossed their silver showers, tired pedestrians 
often lingered in passing to hear the falling drops 
purl softly in the big stone basins. It was a thirsty 
hour, and all along the avenue the puestos, or booths, 
were doing a driving trade in the various “soft 
drinks” to which the Spaniards are so largely given. 
On each tiny counter stood the earthen botijo, 
bedewed with moisture, or a churn of horchata de 
chufas ; and ranged on the shelves above were glasses 
of all shapes and sizes, jars of the foam-like confec- 
tions known as azucarillos, rows upon rows of bottles 
containing sirups and essences, and the inevitable 
long-necked vial of aguardiente. Before each booth, 
in the pleasant shade of the nearest tree, was a little 
round wooden table with a full complement of 
weather-beaten chairs. Many of these were occupied 
by domestic groups, — a paterfamilias sipping his 
brandy and water, his dark-eyed wife and brown- 
faced children each provided with a glass of frozen 
horchata which they noisily imbibed through a straw. 


Her American Daughter 


265 


Here and there, a nursemaid and her charges lin- 
gered to chat with a friendly proprietress; and at 
one puesto, where the attendant Hebe chanced to be 
young and pretty, the table was surrounded by a 
party of jovial bachelors who appeared to discover as 
much spirit in her badinage as in the long-necked 
vials on her shelves. 

At a booth near the corner of the Alcala, our two 
young art students were indulging in a limonada by 
way of refreshment in the midst of their afternoon 
labors. The mood of each was characteristic; Peter 
leaned forward with his elbows on the table, talking 
enthusiastically of their future plans, and Ray — 
silent, but smiling encouragement — listened with 
half an ear, acutely conscious meanwhile of every 
detail in the surrounding scene. 

“1 do believe — ” exclaimed the boy, suddenly 
impressed by the wistfulness in her face, “I do believe 
you would rather stay behind !” 

“N-no,” said Ray, “but there is more of the vege- 
table than the vagabond in my nature. I feel as poor 
Jo must have done when he heard the inevitable 
Move on ! I think, Peter, the Southerner takes root 
more quickly than you children of a colder clime; 
and I am certain that it is the strength of our affec- 
tions that makes us so averse to change — we Charles- 
tonians become positively fond of our makeshifts and 
our nuisances. It isn’t so much that we are unpro- 
pressive as that we have the great gift of content- 
ment, which I fancy you Northerners lack. Look at 
Mrs. Dering, for instance ; she is hardly a fair type, 
but—” 


266 Her American Daughter 

“Speak of the angels !” interrupted Peter, lifting 
his hat. “Yonder she conies now with Russell and 
the Hazeldeans. She must be perfectly scandalized 
to see us sitting here; for although she has quite a 
leaning to bohemianism even when it’s a little bit 
shady, she has a mortal dread of doing anything 
bourgeois — never mind how respectable it may be!” 

“That comes of living in big cities,” opined Ray, 
smiling calmly, though her pulses were fairly leaping 
at the sight of one tall figure in the approaching 
group. “Now a Charlestonian rises superior to such 
a fear, for in our happy provincialism whatever we 
choose to do becomes at once good form.” 

Peter’s eyes twinkled. “I’m afraid,” he wickedly 
said, “some people might mistake your Southern 
contentment for conceit!” Then, before she could 
retaliate, he started forward to greet the new comers, 
who were four in number. At Mrs. Dering’s side was 
a fresh-colored Englishman, whom Peter familiarly 
hailed as “Doc”; Russell walked behind with the 
sister, who was very young and superlatively blond. 

Amid a chorus of greetings and introductions, 
Ray felt her hand taken in a firm clasp, while a quiet 
voice demanded how she did. 

“Very well, thank you,” and she met the dark eyes 
squarely. “How does your novel progress ?” 

“Not so satisfactorily as I could wish,” said he. “I 
have somehow lost touch with my characters — the 
reviewers will find me ‘unconvincing.’ But I sup- 
pose it is almost impossible to maintain the same 


Her American Daughter 


267 


mood throughout an entire book — unless one is 
another Balzac — and I can never hope to develop his 
capacity either for invention, speed or coffee.” 

His first words had been quite serious, but the last 
were lightly spoken — so lightly that she was moved 
with a sudden resentment and turned quickly away, 
to encounter Mrs. Dering’s scrutiny. 

“Poor Mr. Russell!” exclaimed that lady. “He 
hasn’t yet recovered from his course of Spanish cook- 
ery. Aren’t you ill, too, of the garlic and oil ? We've 
endured so much of it in the last six weeks that we 
quite appreciate the chef here at this hotel.” 

Ray’s resentment deepened: no doubt he had 
offered that excuse for his change of quarters ! She 
drew back rather coldly, allowing Peter to engage 
the attention of the group; and while his merry 
tongue ran on, her absent gaze lost itself in the green 
vistas and her ears became deaf to the talk around 
her. Even when the royal carriage — in which the boy- 
King sat primly beside his mother — rolled by on its 
way to the Retiro, she took no note of it ; but she was 
presently roused by a ripple of amusement and 
Peter’s voice exclaiming : “What do you think, Miss 
Ray?” 

Being utterly at a loss as to the subject under dis- 
cussion, she could only smile vaguely in reply. 

“Miss Gladys says it must seem so unnatural to 
us Americans not to have any Royal Family, — what 
do you think of that ?” he demanded ; and, without 
pausing for an answer, rattled on: “How awfully 


268 Her American Daughter 

queer it must seem to you English, Miss Gladys, not 
to be able to bet on every small boy’s chances for the 
Presidency !” 

“What a droll idea !” returned Miss Hazeldean. “I 
suppose that’s an American joke,” and she wrinkled 
her pretty forehead in real or assumed perplexity. 

Ray laughed now with the rest, and joining in the 
conversation discovered soon that she herself was an 
object of much interest to the English girl, with 
whom Peter had been as communicative as usual. 

“I’ve wanted so much to meet you ; Mr. Harding 
promised that I should, but he seems to be a very 
unreliable person ! We need not thank him for this 
lucky encounter. And he gave me his word, too, that 
I should have a peep into the studio before it was 
pulled to pieces.” 

“I’m afraid he has forgotten that,” said Ray, “for 
he began to pack things there this morning. It must 
be in a dreadful state of confusion ; but if you care to 
come with us now, we were on our way there.” 

This suggestion was received with enthusiasm, not 
only by Miss Hazeldean but by Peter, whose 
amended invitation included the whole party. “It’s 
dusty and messy, of course, for we haven’t used it or 
cleaned it up in three weeks; but all our winter’s 
work is still on exhibition, and some of Stafford’s 
things and Miss Ray’s latest are really worth seeing. 
Come on, Mrs. Dering — come on, everybody; it’s a 
free show, better not miss it !” 

Nobody wanted to miss it, apparently; for they 
started off at once — all, that is, but Russell, who hesi- 
tated a moment while his eye sought Ray’s. 


Her American Daughter 


269 


“Aren’t you coming too?” she inquired, with a 
vivid blush. “I’d like to show you my portrait of 
Dolores.” 

“Thank you,” was the quick response, “I shall be 
delighted,” and joining Dr. Hazeldean, he brought 
up the rear of the procession. 

On their arrival at the studio, it became imme- 
diately evident that the dust and disorder were no 
mere figure of speech. Mrs. Dering gathered up her 
dainty skirts distrustfully as she picked her way 
between the huge boxes and the heaps of drapery, art 
materials and curios of all kinds that littered the 
floor; even Ray looked a bit dismayed on finding 
Peter’s methods to be so masculine and energetic — 
for, so far, he seemed to have done his packing very 
much as he would have shoveled coal. But he, hiim 
self, was not in the least abashed, ushering them 
through with cheerful courtesy. “This way, Mrs. 
Dering! ’Ware the paint bucket, Miss Gladys! 
You’ll find Stafford’s work here, Miss Ray’s on that 
side, and mine — representing quantity if not quality 
— over yonder,” and he modestly indicated the thirty 
or forty spirited studies tacked up on the opposite 
wall. 

To Russell, the room and most of its contents were 
already familiar; so, while the others slowly made 
the rounds, admiring and criticising with more or 
less discrimination, he crossed directly to the corner 
where Ray was uncovering the senora’s portrait, 
which had been brought here only a few hours 
before. 


270 


Her American Daughter 


“Ah !” he exclaimed, as she made place for him, 
“evidently you have not wasted this last fortnight! 
I had no idea you could paint so well !” 

Detecting the suppressed bitterness in his tone, she 
glanced up in gentle deprecation and asked if he 
found it like. 

“Very, touchingly so!” he said. “Perhaps you 
have idealized her a little, but — ” 

“Oh, no!” Ray interrupted, “I have done her 
barely justice. You don’t know her as I do.” 

“True,” he admitted, with a smile half sad, half 
tender. “What you see in people is usually their very 
best, — so how poor must those be whose best has 
failed to—” 

She lifted one hand in piteous protest, and then 
turned quickly away to hide the trouble in her eyes. 
Russell made no attempt to follow her, but stood 
where he was for several minutes with arms folded 
and eyes fixed on the canvas before him. He was 
realizing for the first time that her art might be the 
real obstacle between them; he had never taken it 
very seriously until now, his own work being of vastly 
greater importance in all his calculations. But if Ray 
could paint like this she was justified in thinking of 
her possible career, which marriage would inevitably 
cut short. He wondered now at the egregious ego- 
tism that had blinded him hitherto, that had made 
him so ready to say to her : “Lay down your own 
tools and carry the hod for me !” 

Mrs. Dering drifted round to his side and pro- 
fessed great admiration for the portrait. “I like the 
simplicity of the color scheme, — don’t you ? just that 


Her American Daughter 


271 


black figure against the creamy wall; it’s so very 
decorative. I declare, it would be just the thing for 
that difficult panel in my summer library. You’ve 
never seen my Southhampton cottage, Mr. Russell — 
you must pay us a visit in August. I’ve had more 
trouble with that one room than with all the rest of 
the house put together; there’s one panel between 
two south windows that is driving me to an early 
grave. I have a mirror hanging there now, and I do 
detest mirrors in a library — they always seem to me 
so out of place. This picture would be in admirable 
taste there — I wonder if Miss Woodward cares to 
sell it ! I have a great mind to ask,” and she wandered 
off in pursuit of the young artist. 

For some time past, Ray’s conscience had con- 
victed her of a secret antagonism to Mrs. Dering, 
which she had vainly endeavored to justify to herself 
on the ground of the other’s self-absorption. She 
wlas well aware that her own transparency was as 
apt to betray her dislikes as her likings ; and, fearing 
now that she had been negligent of this visitor, she 
left the group with which she had been chatting and 
hastened to meet her half way. Mrs. Dering made 
the proposition at once — and rather too bluntly, 
thought Russell, who could overhear and was not at 
all surprised at Ray’s prompt and decided declina- 
tion. 

“But why?” demanded the would-be purchaser. “I 
thought all artists expected to sell their pictures. If 
it’s a question of terms, you have only to name your 
price.” 


272 


Her American Daughter 


"It's not a question of terms, however,” declared 
Ray, with gentle dignity. “In fact, if it came to 
that, I would have no idea how to value my work, for 
I have never sold anything before but a few little 
sketches in New York. But even if I cared to part 
with this picture, I wouldn’t do so now — as I have 
other plans in regard to it.” 

“Part with what picture?” demanded Peter, hur- 
rying up. “The senora’s portrait? No, no, Mrs. 
Dering ; you can’t have that — unless you are willing 
to wait a year for it. We have our eye on that for 
the Salon next spring.” 

“Oh, I must either have it now or not at all ; my 
courier must see it packed and shipped with my other 
purchases before we leave Madrid. I think you might 
use your influence in my behalf, Mr. Harding — for I 
really want it exceedingly. What would you con- 
sider a fair price for it? Two hundred and fifty? — 
or three hundred? I’m quite willing to pay that 
much.” 

Giving him no time to reply, Ray broke in with a 
little embarrassed laugh and declared that, while she 
appreciated Mrs. Dering’s insistence, she desired her 
first answer to be taken as final. 

Afterward, when the visitors had left, Peter 
applauded her decision; for, although he conceded 
that the offer had been liberal enough for the work 
of an unknown art student, he was of the opinion 
that, in Paris, Ray would find the prestige of the por- 
trait worth more to her than the money. 

“It is just possible,” she agreed, “although neither 
you nor I, Peter, have any very clear idea yet of Par- 


Her American Daughter 273 

isian standards. But aside from all our hopes, I would 
like always to keep it for the senora’s sake. Hers is 
no common type. Don’t you recognize the prophetic 
significance of her name? Dolores — Sorrows. But 
all her troubles have been borne with an admirable 
courage ! To me she is the personification of faithful 
widowhood, and I have tried to express something of 
that in painting her. — Now of course, I know noth- 
ing of Mrs. Dering’s past; but I am sure she can 
have no sympathy with my thought. She offers to 
buy the portrait as she would a — ” 

“A piece of Moorish embroidery,” suggested 
Peter, with a half smile. 

“Exactly, — for its decorative value alone. I 
couldn’t bear that ! She’s the last person in the world 
I should wish to sell it to !” 

Peter laughed. “I see you are not above nourish- 
ing an old grudge, Miss Ray.” 

“Perhaps so,” she admitted with mounting color. 
“Call that a third reason if you like ! Ambition, senti- 
ment, pride — entirely too much to be sacrified for a 
paltry three hundred dollars !” 

“You wouldn’t be calling ’em paltry if your letter 
of credit had run as near dry as mine has,” and he 
chuckled sadly. “All the same, if you can afford 
not to, I wouldn’t dream of selling — certainly not 
before Stafford gives his opinion.” 

“I have no idea of doing so at all,” she decisively 
answered ; then they both applied themselves to the 
reduction of the surrounding disorder and nothing 
more was said upon the subject. 


274 


Her American Daughter 


To Peter, therefore, it was a matter of infinite sur- 
prise and conjecture when, only twenty-four hours 
later, Ray informed him that she had changed her 
mind and accepted Mrs. Dering’s offer ; the portrait 
was to be sent for at once by a neighboring art dealer 
and packed for immediate shipment. This unneces- 
sary haste — when the Staffords were expected within 
two days — added fuel to his wrath and disappoint- 
ment, which blazed over her without restraint for 
several minutes and was only temporarily subdued by 
her rising tears. 

“Don’t you suppose I mind it?” she demanded 
with quivering lips. “I begged hard for two days of 
grace — it does seem too bad that Mr. Stafford won’t 
see it. I would have given a great deal just to hear 
him say Well done ! But Mrs. Dering doesn’t like to 
wait for things, you know.” 

“But what the dickens made you sell? You didn’t 
really need the money. I declare, there’s no count- 
ing on a woman’s whims ! What’s become of your 
three weighty reasons ? Has that three hundred dol- 
lars grown any, that it equals them today?” 

“No, Peter; but I am actuated now by a new 
motive — one which I don’t care to disclose.” Then 
a smile flickered over her face. “If you must know, 
this motive is equal to the other three reasons plus 
the three hundred dollars !” 

And, further than this, she would tell him nothing. 


CHAPTER XXV 


When the last day of April dawned without a 
shadow in the burnished blue, without even a cloudlet 
small as a man’s hand, the Queen Regent issued a 
proclamation through the pulpits of Madrid to the 
effect that on the ensuing Sunday would be celebrated 
a grand rogativa, or procession for water, in which 
Her Majesty’s self, the young King, all the city 
officials and church dignitaries would take part, 
attended, as was usual on such occasions, by a vast 
following of the people. In the midst of this solemn 
parade, the shrine containing the bones of San 
Isidro — the pious husbandman of the twelfth cen- 
tury — would be borne around the city, in reverent 
expectation that, as the good Saint in his lifetime 
had been blessed with plenteous harvests, his inter- 
cession now would procure for his countrymen the 
rains of which they stood so much in need. 

And here, lest the chronicler of this history be 
charged with lack of candor, let it be said, parentheti- 
cally, that about this time the Weather Bureau held 
forth hopes of an approaching atmospheric depres- 
sion. But who is so credulous as to stake any chances 
upon the infallibility of a Weather Bureau? 

It was upon San Isidro, whose birthplace is still 
pointed out among the tottering houses of the Calle 
del Aguila, whose shrine is far famed for its miracle 


276 


Her American Daughter 


working powers, whose name is hallowed by legends 
innumerable — notably that beautiful one of the angel 
with the milk white oxen, who, while the devout 
laborer knelt at prayer in the chapel hard by, plowed 
the straightest furrow in his task, — it was upon San 
Isidro, patron of Madrid, that the disheartened people 
now built their trust. For it was on record that, 
more than two hundred years ago (when there were 
no Weather Bureaus) in a similar season of drought 
and despondency, the shrine had been thus brought 
forth, and before the procession could return, lo ! the 
heavens had given rain. So might it be again, they 
said, and smiled at each other and took courage. 

However, there was one very important personage 
whom the Queen had neglected to consult before 
making her benevolent and confident plans for the 
people’s relief; this was neither high official nor 
priestly potentate, but a greater than any : it was his 
sovereign majesty, el torero. And, although Satur- 
day would be the “Dos de Mayo” — a great military 
fiesta and always a special day in his calendar, he had 
no mind to forego the profits of the usual Sunday 
bull fight. His program for the two days had been 
arranged months in advance; fortunes might be 
already staked upon his suertes; the brave beasts that 
were to meet their fate at his hands — themselves 
worth many thousand pesetas — had been supplied for 
the two occasions; the very seats and boxes of the 
Circus had been subscribed. Either the procession 
or the bull fight would have to be postponed, but — it 
would not be the bull fight ! As in most cases where 
a weaker power discovers itself in opposition to a 


Her American Daughter 277 

stronger, Dona Maria Cristina found it expedient to 
give way. A later proclamation announced that the 
rogativa would be celebrated on Monday. 

Meanwhile, there was a little reunion in the Calle 
Mayor; for the Staffords arrived on Friday and, that 
night, Russell dropped in to welcome them. Dinner 
was still in progress and Benita found him a chair. 
It was quite like old times, said Don Antonio, and 
the others warmly assented; but two of the party 
avoided each other’s eyes and were very glad of the 
laughter that Peter provoked by a reference to the 
change in Francisco’s condition. The young officer 
took the jest in good part and airily waved his wine 
glass by way of reply; outwardly, he was quite 
unchanged, neither matrimony nor prospective exile 
semed to weigh on his spirits and,' a few minutes 
later, he was playing philopena with Ray. The rest 
fell to chatting about Seville; and presently Mr. 
Stafford excused himself to bring out his portfolio of 
sketches, which he passed around the circle when the 
table was cleared. 

It was just one of those informal hours, delightful 
in themselves, that nevertheless widen the breach 
between persons situated as Ray and Russell then 
were. Since the shock of that Sunday’s parting, 
they had met only in a crowd, when self restraint was 
imperative. Had it been otherwise, had they come 
upon each other face to face, and alone, while yet 
their memories were tingling and before habit had 
taught them to speak in commonplaces, there is no 
doubt that the subject nearest their hearts would have 


278 


Her American Daughter 


been reopened. As it was, every careless remark, 
every unmeaning glance that passed between them 
seemed to thicken the fog that hid them from each 
other. And this might be their last meeting in many 
years; for the author’s intention was to leave for 
Paris, with Mrs. Dering’s party, on Monday night. 

When he announced this, Peter declared it was a 
shame! Why not wait one day longer and go all 
together in a big, jolly party? 

“That would be impossible for me,” said Russell, 
' and went on to explain that he had already strained 
a point to oblige Mrs. Dering, who wanted to witness 
the rogativa, and now he would have very little time 
to spare, as he was sailing from Havre in a fortnight. 

“You are going back to America — you are going 
home!” cried Ray. 

“Yes,” he said, “I am going home. When will 
the term of your exile be over ?” 

“Don’t you know?” she returned, with a reckless 
laugh. “When I have a picture in the Salon.” 

Peter burst out with something unintelligible anent 
wasted opportunities, but she checked him with such 
an appealing look that he was fain to cover up his 
remark. “Fact is,” he said, “Art is so long and 
Time so fleeting that I believe the best way to get 
wealthy is to buy a lottery ticket — like every other 
beggar in Madrid! Look at this — ” and he pulled 
a newspaper from his pocket, “here’s an extra, giving 
the results of today’s sorteo. The prizes all together 
amount to hundreds of thousands of pesetas !” 

Francisco started up hastily. “Have the goodness 
to let me see it, caballero !” 


Her American Daughter 279 

“Oh, ho !” laughed Peter, as he pushed the paper 
over, “so you are an interested party ! Well — what 
luck?” 

Naturally, all attention was centred on the young 
Spaniard, who was staring open mouthed at the tall 
headlines, unable to credit the testimony of his own 
bewildered eyes. In the list of winning numbers, 
five big black figures danced, dilated and grew indis- 
tinguishable as he gazed ; they belonged to the ticket 
that had drawn the second prize of twenty thousand 
duros. He caught his breath, winked rapidly and 
looked again — and the figures settled back into 
position. 1 1003. There was no doubt of it. 
“Caspita !” he gasped feebly, and smote his forehead 
with his open palm in so tragic a manner that the 
table smiled. 

“What is it ?” asked Ray kindly. “Have you won, 
or lost?” 

He regarded her in blank confusion for a second or 
two. “No, senorita, / have won nothing — nothing !” 
Then he pushed back his chair and, rising speech- 
lessly, left the room. 

“Poor fellow!” said Ray, “no doubt he counted 
on a fortune! Peter, my friend, I think you had 
better let lotteries alone and devote yourself to Art, 
long as it is !” 

At ten o’clock, Don Antonio said he must leave 
them for his nightly game of chess at the Cafe 
Suizo, and Russell proposed to accompany him, for 
the travelers both looked tired. He declined Mr. 
Stafford’s invitation to dine with them on Sunday, 
having already promised himself to Senor de Tolosa; 


280 ? Her American Daughter 

and shaking hands all round, he bade them a pro- 
visional farewell, for what with the many and varied 
functions of the next three days he might be pre- 
vented from calling again. The two men promised 
to hunt him up themselves ; Mrs. Stafford sent num- 
berless messages to the Hazeldeans and Mrs. Dering's 
aunt, who had all been so attentive to them in Seville ; 
Ray smilingly declared that she would be looking out 
for the new novel and the illustrated articles : to all 
of which the author made appropriate but rather 
perfunctory replies, while Don Antonio fidgeted in 
the background and looked two or three times at his 
watch. 

At last it was all over and the hall door had closed 
behind them. Then Mr. Stafford tied up his port- 
folio, his wife yawned and remarked that she had no 
idea she was so sleepy, Peter stood up with his hands 
in his pockets and gloomily defied them to pick up 
a finer fellow than Russell anywhere, and Ray — 
saying nothing at all — vanished precipitately. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Saturday, as we have said before, was the “Dos de 
Mayo/’ At breakfast, Don Antonio entertained them 
with hereditary anecdotes of Napoleon’s invasion, 
the popular uprising in 1808, and the gallant deaths 
of Luis Daoiz and Pedro Velarde, “heroes de la lib- 
ertad de la patria!” All the morning, resplendent 
uniforms paraded under the senora’s windows and 
the Puerta del Sol was a field of flashing bayonets. 

Peter’s enthusiasm for everything military carried 
him out into the thickest of the crowd, and he 
returned at noon in such a sanguinary frame of mind 
that nothing would content him but a bull fight. With 
specious arguments, he persuaded Mr. Stafford and 
Ray to join him — the one, because he could carry his 
sketch book and add to his collection of tauromachic 
studies; the other, because this week day perform- 
ance afforded her a last and not-to-be-neglected 
opportunity of witnessing the national sport. Mrs. 
Stafford, however, when pressed to go as chaperon, 
flatly declined; she had sacrificed herself once in 
Seville for the sake of her husband and Art, but she 
had no idea of making herself an oblation to Mrs. 
Grundy. People whose sensibilities were not too deli- 
cate for such bloody spectacles could afford to dis- 
pense with chaperons, she said. Whereupon Ray 
shuddered and began to look dubious, but Peter had 
already flown out to the nearest despacho for tickets. 


282 Her American Daughter 

When he came back it was with rather a crestfallen 
air, for all the choice places had been sold; at this 
eleventh hour it would be impossible to buy three — or 
even two adjoining seats in any part of the Circus. 
He had done his best, but he didn’t know what Miss 
Ray would think ; however, she must look at the bil- 
letes and decide the matter for herself. With that, 
he spread the green slips on the table before her. 

“This is yours, a front seat in the lower gallery; 
the surrounding chairs will be filled chiefly by ladies, 
and you’d be perfectly safe there — only a little lonely. 
This next ticket is for a seat much lower down, near 
the barrier, where Mr. Stafford will be close enough 
to the performers to make a few lightning sketches. 
The third seat, which I will take, is just midway 
between the other two and within speaking distance 
of both. Now . . . are you brave enough to 

risk it?” 

“Oh, if it’s only a question of bravery — ” began 
Ray, looking slightly nettled, “of course I’ll risk it.” 

“But suppose you wanted to leave!” said Mrs. 
Stafford. 

“All she would have to do,” interrupted Peter, 
“would be to poke me through the railing with the 
end of her parasol and I would come round to her at 
once.” 

“If I decide to go, I will stay it out.” 

“Well, you haven’t much time to decide in; the 
performance begins in an hour. Shall we toss a 
peseta ? Heads — go, tails — ” 

“Stop!” exclaimed Ray, “that’s childish. If Mrs. 
Stafford thinks there’s no impropriety — ” 


Her American Daughter 283 

“Oh, don’t leave the responsibility of the decision 
on my shoulders,” protested that lady. 

“Leave it on mine,” Peter urged. “It all depends 
on the character you are going in. For a Madrilenian, 
it would be shocking ; for an American girl who was 
known here in social circles, it would be question- 
able; but for a dignified young art student with 
plenty of common sense, it’s all right. Go put on 
your hat !” 

“I’ll be ready in five minutes.” 

“Good for you!” he applauded. “I expected no 
less from a Charlestonian — it’s a great thing to be a 
law unto yourself, eh? Hurry up, then! Mr. Staf- 
ford’ll wait for you while I hunt up a cab. Hip, hip, 
hurrah !” and he tore off again like a young hurri- 
cane, leaving Ray very indignant, but unable to resist 
a laugh. 

She was thankful that his hilarity was of that 
spontaneous quality that requires no encouragement, 
for her own spirits were like a spring run dry; she 
had grasped at the prospect of this novel experience 
only because it might divert her thoughts from the 
quarter to which they now constantly tended: one 
face, one voice had haunted her all day. 

But she was soon to realize the futility of flying 
from such memories. As their cab rolled away up 
the Alcala, she found herself living over all the scenes 
of that Sunday riot : she heard the hoarse cries of the 
mob ; she felt the crush, the weakness, the terror, the 
ineffable security born of his coming; and she 
recalled his every look and word during their home- 
ward drive through this very street! It was all far 


284 Her American Daughter 

more real to her than the actual present, with Mr. 
Stafford on the seat beside her, dreamily sharpening 
his pencils, and Peter opposite, laughing mirthfully 
at his own jokes. 

Meanwhile, they had fallen in with the long pro-: 
cession of carriages, cabs and stages, rolling, rattling 
and rumbling along on the highway that leads to 
the bull ring ; and all at once Peter started to his feet, 
wildly waving his hat. 

“Look yonder!” he exclaimed. “That golden 
haired girl — in the brougham that passed us — did 
you recognize her ? I know it’s Miss Gladys !” 

“Who was she with?” demanded Ray ungram- 
matically. 

“Mrs. Dering, I think; Russell and the Doctor 
were on the seat in front — Mrs. Dering likes to have 
two strings to her bow,” he added maliciously. 

Ray’s color deepened, but she very justly observed 
that a superabundance of strings seemed to be always 
at Mrs. Dering’s service. Nevertheless, tht little 
encounter put an effectual period to her revery. 

The dust was suffocating, the afternoon sun 
unpleasantly warm. Soon, the cab turned into the 
wide Plaza de Toros, and the cochero lashed his 
horses to a gallop. Before them, in the distance — a 
clay colored silhouette against the clear blue sky — 
loomed the huge amphitheatre, its severe outline 
unrelieved save by the peaked summit of the Moorish 
portal, over which a tall flagstaff arose and flaunted 
a rag of crimson. Their approach was in the nature 
of a chariot race ; their competitors, every vehicle in 
sight. But when they pulled up at last, within a hun- 


Her American Daughter 285 

dred feet of the Circus, it seemed as though the city’s 
entire population had arrived before them : it might 
have been the unfinished tower of Babel at the time 
of the confusion of tongues. And high above the 
din rose the cry of the newsboys : “La Lidia — La 
Lidia — Revista Taurina — Progra-a-a-ma Official de 
Especta-a-a-culos !” 

Dazed and deafened, Ray clung to Mr. Stafford’s 
arm, while Peter’s broad young shoulders cleared a 
passage through the crowd. Forcing an entrance at 
the horse-shoe arch, they gained a curving corridor, 
climbed a flight of stairs, and through a second cor- 
ridor emerged on a pillared gallery. Beneath them, 
lay the vast arena — a circle of sunlit sand eclipsed by 
a crescent of shadow. It was rimmed by two bar- 
riers — a frail wooden fence, breast-high, and an 
outer wall of stone. The encompassing seats, built 
also of stone, were obscured by a bank of sombreros. 
Above these were the galleries, of which the upper 
one was divided into palcos — or boxes — draped with 
gay hangings and fluttering with paper fans and sun- 
shades, red, yellow and green, behind which were 
hiding a myriad black eyes; the lower gallery — 
where they now stood — contained three tiers of seats, 
and Ray’s ticket directed her to the lowest, where 
only a light wooden railing divided her from the 
sombreros below. 

“You see,” said Peter, “it’s just on the edge of the 
sol, so it may be rather warm for a while ; but the 
sombra will reach it as the sun drops lower, and 
meanwhile you must have one of these paper abani- 
cos.” He pursued an itinerant vender around the 


286 Her American Daughter 

corridor and came back with a sunburst of orange 
and scarlet. “This is hardly becoming to the Ameri- 
can complexion,” he regretted, “but all of the others 
were magenta and green.” 

“Never mind; it will illuminate me like a stained 
glass window, so my natural coloring won’t show in 
the least. — I like the looks of my neighbors,” she 
added in an undertone. “Bourgeois, but very respect- 
able.” 

“The swells sit on the shady side, you see, and all 
the hidalgos have their private palcos. That’s the 
royal box up yonder, draped in the Spanish colors. I 
think only the Alcalde is there today. The King and 
Queen seldom come — Her Majesty wasn’t born to 
the sport ; but the Infanta Isabel is a great aficionada 
and tremendously popular in consequence ; she was 
here last Sunday when Mazzantini received such an 
astounding ovation. That next box belongs to the 
Empresario of the Circus. — Ah! there’s Mr. Staf- 
ford, just taking his seat below us. — You are sure 
you are not afraid to be left alone ?” 

“Not a bit,” she returned mendaciously, and 
waved him off with a confident smile. He came back 
once more to bring her a program, and then took his 
own place among the crowd of men below, where she 
could speak to him by nods and smiles though her 
parasol-handle would hardly serve as a means of 
communication. 

The band, down by the barrier, was playing La 
vida en Madrid ; her neighbors were chatting with 
loud-voiced jocularity : it was a festive hour to most, 
but Ray felt strangely forlorn and turned for con- 


Her American Daughter 287 

solation to her program. From this source she 
learned that the old and famous stock of his excel- 
lency Senor Don Eduardo Miura, of Seville, had fur- 
nished the six bulls for this occasion ; a portrait of 
each one was engraved on the sheet, with name and 
description beneath. First appeared a huge black 
beast called Salerito, whose death was to be at the 
hands of the great Mazzantini ; next came Jardinero, 
a bull with white and purple markings, doomed to 
fall by Reverte’s sword; then Jabaito, a horned ter- 
ror, reserved for “Bombita,” the young favorite of 
Seville. The fourth, fifth and sixth bulls — Cucha- 
rito, Aceituno and Choricero — were apportioned to 
the same espadas, who would therefore have two 
opportunities each of winning plaudits from the 
fourteen thousand spectators now packed into the 
amphitheatre. 

Ray dropped her program with a shudder. This 
individualizing of the doomed animals struck her 
as something sinister. She remembered how, in her 
childish days, a superfluous family of kittens had 
been saved from a watery grave by her assiduous 
christening of each unconscious ball of fluff — it being 
contrary to the ethics of the household to kill any- 
thing that had a name! A strong distaste for this 
cruel spectacle took possession of her, and she was 
wishing herself away when a loud trumpet note 
caused her to lean forward. The band struck up the 
paso-doble from the opera Cadis , and a sudden hush 
fell upon the great assemblage. 

Into the arena rode the two heralds, in costumes 
of the sixteenth century ; they saluted the royal box 


288 Her American Daughter 

and galloped out; another trumpet blared and they 
rode back again, followed by all the human combat- 
ants. The procession flashed across the sunlit zone 
like a bright hued comet with a prismatic, expanding 
tail. A key fell from the Alcalde’s hand, a great 
door yawned blackly, a warning cry rang out — and 
the comet burst as Salerito entered. From his bleed- 
ing shoulder fluttered the barbed rosette that marked 
him for a cruel death. Sullen, majestic, he paced into 
the centre of the ring and halted. 

Ray’s face went white; her sympathies at that 
moment were all with the bull ; she invested him with 
a superbestial dignity, and thrilled with indignation 
against the gold-laced, glittering swarm of human 
gad-flies that surrounded him. He stood there, paw- 
ing the yellow sand and gazing proudly on his 
would-be murderers. His sires, for generations, had 
been bred up for this same fate; surely he compre- 
hended ! And it must have touched his brute pride 
somewhat, that fourteen thousand humans had come 
there to see him die. Dumb he was ; but in the toss 
of his huge head, in the swelling of his mighty throat 
as he glared up at the red hangings of the royal box, 
she read an Ave Caesar ! 

A picador on a white horse rode forward to attack ; 
Salerito shook his great head, lowered his shining 
horns and rushed to meet them. ... A hoarse 
murmur ran around the barrier, applauding the bull 
as the horse went down, and Ray covered her eyes. 
Two more horses shared the same fate, banderilleros 
planted their cruel darts and the fluttering capas 
taunted the wounded victim ; but, although the deep 


Her American Daughter 


289 


roars of applause told her whenever blood was 
spilled, Ray saw none of it, she hid her face with the 
huge paper fan and hated herself for coming. Peter 
had quite forgotten her, he was so fascinated by the 
gorgeous color effects and the agility of the toreros 
that he had no glances to spare. Neither of them 
noticed when one of the men just outside of the gal- 
lery railing rose at a signal from a caballero seated 
further away and, after a whispered consultation, 
exchanged places with him. The newcomer was 
dressed in the extreme of fashion and wore a red car- 
nation in his buttonhole. 

But the first act of the bloody drama was drawing 
to an end and there was a new note in the plaudits 
as Mazzantini stepped into the arena. Ray uncovered 
her eyes for one look at the famous espada and, in 
spite of herself, watched the scene to its close. The 
bull’s black hide was now gray with dust, the gaudy 
banderillas dangling from his shoulders swung to 
and fro with every motion of his head. His nostrils 
were spread and quivering, a defiant spirit looked 
out of his bloodshot eyes and his great bulk was con- 
vulsed by a sudden shiver as the espada advanced to 
meet him — a conspicuous figure in white and green 
and silver, carrying in its right hand an unsheathed 
sword concealed under the folds of a crimson flag. 
The little splash of angry color caught Salerito’s eye 
and held it, he seemed to realize at once that this 
adversary alone was worth his notice. What followed 
was a duel to the death — but the result was a fore- 
gone conclusion. The American girl, choking down 
a sob, prayed that it might be over quickly. 


290 


Her American Daughter 


From one stringent rule of tauromachia the natu- 
ral inference would be that the bull had sometime 
bathed him in the river Styx, all but a tiny spot 
between the shoulders ; for there, and nowhere else, 
must the espada plant his sword — and this feat can 
be performed only when the horns are lowered to 
attack. Mazzantini was an artist in his way, but 
this happened to be one of his uninspired hours: 
when the moment came to make the thrust, his wrist 
or his eye must have failed him. There was a flash 
of naked steel in the sunlight . . . then a 

capeador interposed with a fluttering yellow cloak; 
for the espada stood there unarmed, and his Toledan 
blade was sticking upright in the spine of the mad- 
dened bull. A mighty shrug sent it flying through 
the air, and a murmur of disapproval ran around the 
amphitheatre. A moment later, the man had 
regained his weapon and renewed the contest; the 
thrust was made a second time with the same unsuc- 
cess, and the disapproval of the spectators became 
more audible. The laurels of a torero may wither in 
a day, — a third failure now roused the people to 
indignation ! But although the thrice wounded ani- 
mal was weakened by loss of blood and bellowing in 
his agony, he again rushed forward to meet his 
butcher; and, this time, the sword went home. 
There was no applause — only a sudden uproar of 
comment and criticism — and Mazzantini made an 
inglorious exit; so did Salerito, who was dragged 
away by a team of frisky mules while the chulos 
came in haste and raked over the crimsoned sand. 


Her American Daughter 291 

Ray leaned back in her seat with a shudder of cold 
disgust ; in imagination, she followed that limp car- 
cass to the butcher’s stall outside — to the soup pots 
of the poor; and the arena, with all its glitter of 
gold and riot of color seemed no whit better than 
any common shambles ! 

As the second bull came bellowing into the ring, 
she hastily lifted her fan — and beneath it saw, lying 
in her lap, a little twist of white paper wrapped 
round the stem of a red carnation. Whence had it 
come? from whom and with what intent? Her 
immediate neighbors — both women — were appar- 
ently unconscious of her very existence; the man 
who sat behind was accompanied by his wife and two 
blooming daughters ; — could any one have thrown it 
through the railing in front? The paper, on closer 
inspection, appeared to have writing upon it, and 
Ray — being a true daughter of Eve — unfolded it 
with some curiosity; it was scribbled over in pencil 
in a fine running hand and signed by initials only, but 
her own name at the commencement was written out 
in full. 

“To the very honorable senorita, Dona Reina 
Woodward. 

“Much esteemed senorita: — 

Circumstances — the nature of which I cannot 
now explain — have lately arisen which compel me 
to address to you this note ; but I do so in a spirit of 
deep respect. I have a proposition to make, with 
your gracious permission, compliance with which 
would greatly advantage you. For your own sake, 
therefore, I entreat you to hear me further, and to 


292 Her American Daughter 

signify your willingness to do so by wearing this 
flower — if only for five minutes. I am watching you 
now. And I have the honor to be 

“S. S. Q. B. S. P. 

“T. de S ” 

Confused somewhat by the number of initials (the 
first six of which were a customary abbreviation of 
the polite formula : Su servidor que besa sus pies — 
Your servant who kisses your feet) Ray failed to 
divine the writer until after she had read the note; 
then she hastily lifted her eyes and recognized her 
“bete noire” in the man who was standing up in the 
first row of seats below the balcony and staring at 
her over the railing. She immediately tore the paper 
into fragments, brushing them, together with the 
flower, from her lap to the floor, and screened her 
indignant face behind the gaudy paper fan. When 
she looked again, he had disappeared. 

This little incident — or rather, the anger which it 
excited in her — was quite stimulating in its effect : it 
brought the color back into her cheeks and checked 
the sensation of deadly sickness induced by the brutal 
performance in the ring. Not since the occasion 
that had caused her misunderstanding with Mr. Rus- 
sell, had she encountered Teodoro until now; and, 
recalling the undisguised contempt with which she 
had eventually shaken him off, she marveled at his 
presumption in again addressing her. The longer she 
pondered over it, the more she condemned herself for 
coming to a place like this unchaperoned; for, in 
spite of Peter’s propinquity, her isolation must invite 


Her American Daughter 


293 


such approaches. Regarding this merely as a piece 
of impertinence, she attached no importance to the 
note’s mysterious wording — which suggested the 
Personals in a newspaper agony column — but the 
darkening of the man’s brow as she threw the flower 
away, his strange look of bafflement, puzzled her con- 
siderably. 

She was startled from her revery by a burst of 
shouts and cheers. Her neighbors were leaning for- 
ward in their seats, and down among the sombreros 
there was a flurry of excitement : Jardinero, the sec- 
ond bull, had leaped the inner barrier. He raced 
round the narrow way between the wooden fence and 
the wall of stone and, through a quickly opened gate, 
charged back into the arena. All the cheering was 
for him; he had killed five horses, throwing one 
picador severely, and had missed only by a hair’s 
breadth a fleeing capeador, who was dragged over 
the second barrier by his friends outside. Now, there 
was something leonine in his attitude as, with head 
erect and waving tail, he held the centre of the ring. 
Despite the desperate fight he had been making, he 
was still unwearied ; the espada would find in him no 
gentle antagonist and a failure like his predecessor’s 
might cost him his life. This was quite evident to 
the spectators, and a thrill of apprehension ran 
through them as a lithe, debonair young fellow, in 
orange and gold, gracefully saluted the royal box and 
sauntered out toward the bull. All the capas rallied 
to his defense, but he airily waved them off — this 
was his little private affair with Jardinero! The 
angry beast shook his claret colored head and 


294 


Her American Daughter 


charged at once, but Reverte nimbly skipped aside 
with a flirt of the red muleta. ' Agile as an acrobat 
and graceful as a dancer, his slim young figure 
brightly defined by the gleam of gold fringe and the 
glistening of spangles, he was like an embodied sun- 
beam flitting over the yellow sand. Round and round 
went the pair in an ever narrowing circle, never far 
apart and often face to face, the bull charging in sud- 
den rushes and Reverte to all appearances dancing a 
pavana. 

The audience went wild with delight. And Ray 
leaned forward, spellbound, the sinister character of 
the performance entirely forgotten. Her eyes were 
riveted on the young espada as he passed and 
repassed in front of his terrible partner, his white 
silk stockings flashing within a few inches of the 
cruel horns, his sword still sheathed in the crimson 
flag. Her brain reeled with bewilderment. Was this 
a bull fight — or some strange masquerade performed 
in jest? 

Suddenly, in the midst of a breathless hush, 
Reverte threw up his right arm with the naked, 
gleaming blade, and stood motionless in the very path 
of his assailant. A shuddering sigh ran round the 
barrier. Then — oh ! then — with the bright curve of 
a leaping fish above the wave — that gilded figure 
sprung! And the great bulk of the charging bull 
crumpled down in a purple heap: death had been 
instantaneous, for the sword between the shoulder 
blades was buried to the hilt. 

The serried ranks of the spectators rose as with 
one impulse and a deafening thunderburst of plaudits 


Her American Daughter 


295 


shook the vast building to its foundations. The palcos 
blossomed white with waving handkerchiefs, and a 
hail of black sombreros and cigars descended on the 
yellow sand. Smiling, bowing, with the same debon- 
air grace and ease, Reverte made the tour of the 
arena, acknowledging the applause and tossing back 
the hats of his admirers — it is for such moments that 
the torero lives ! — not even the King of Spain was a 
greater now than he. The sombreros were still drop- 
ping into the ring, and the enthusiasm of the aficion- 
ados still venting itself in occasional cheers, when 
Jabaito came roaring through the gateway. Reverte 
swung himself lightly over the barrier ; but a picador, 
riding in from the opposite side, had no time to wheel 
his horse, which reared directly over the fearful 
horns and fell in a horrid collision. 

A white faced girl in the gallery shrank away from 
the railing, burst into tears and fled sobbing up the 
narrow steps that led to the corridor behind. Her 
hasty exit naturally created a slight sensation ; curi- 
ous eyes followed her, necks were craned and a few 
people rose in their seats. The ripple of disturbance 
ran over the intangible line dividing the sol from the 
sombra, where a group of four foreigners recognized 
her immediately. One of them started to his feet and 
hurried out in pursuit. He found her leaning against 
the wall of the deserted corridor, wringing her small 
hands and struggling desperately with her sobs. She 
evinced no surprise at his approach and, with a sim- 
ple confidence that touched and thrilled him, lifted 
her tearstained face and abandoned one hand to his 
keeping. For a moment, his sympathy was as inar- 


296 Her American Daughter 

ticulate as her distress ; but when she withdrew from 
him, in a resolute effort to regain her self control, he 
indignantly demanded : 

“Who brought you here and then left you to face 
this ordeal alone ?” 

“Nobody,” was the smothered reply. “At least, it 
was all my own fault — I didn’t realize what it would 
be! Peter’s here, and Mr. Stafford; their seats are 
down below; I don’t suppose they saw me coming 
out. — But the dreadful, dreadful thing, Mr. Rus- 
sell, is that — that — five minutes ago I was enjoying 
it !” Her voice broke piteously, but she dashed away 
the tears. “I was so fascinated by the daring — the 
beautiful, wicked grace of that young espada — that I 
forgot the cruelty, the unfairness! I forgot to be 
sorry for the poor bulls and the wretched horses, 
who had no choice but to — oh ! — Perhaps, had I 
lived two thousand years ago, I could have borne to 
see man pitted against man! I might even have 
turned my thumb and cried Habet like any other! 
Think of my standing up just now and cheering! 
But I hadn’t the least idea I was doing it — I didn’t 
know what I was doing.” 

“Well!” exclaimed Russell, responding to the 
appeal in her eyes, “you certainly are not letting that 
trouble you! Why, you might just as well blame an 
iEolian harp for shrieking in a tempest. But this is 
no fit place for any woman. Let me take you home. 
I mean — ” and he gently smiled, “to the Calle 
Mayor.” 

“I’d be so glad to go,” she was saying, shyly, 
gratefully, when an untoward fate in the person of 


Her American Daughter 


297 


Dr. Hazeldean interrupted them. His mission was 
to summon back Mrs. Dering’s recreant escort and to 
offer his own services to Miss Woodward ; his sister 
was anxious to leave, having had quite enough of 
the performance, but Mrs Dering was determined 
to sit it out to the end. Something very like exasper- 
ation flashed over Russell’s face; then he yielded 
calmly to the inevitable and took leave of Ray, prom- 
ising to signal an explanation to Peter, little as that 
young man deserved it. Miss Hazeldean soon joined 
them, looking pale and subdued. 

“Is this your first bull fight ?” she inquired. “How 
dreadful it must have been for you, all by yourself ! I 
had Ernest and Mr. Russell to tell me when not to 
look — but one can’t help seeing some things — 
though the chulos are marvelously quick ! Isn’t Mrs. 
Dering wonderful ? She’s watching it all, just to see 
how it will affect her — a psychological experiment, 
she says !” 

“I don’t approve of such experiments for women,” 
was the Doctor’s blunt comment as they left the 
building together, “and I’m inclined to think she will 
suffer from it physically.” 

Ray was of the same opinion, for her own head 
was aching and she felt weak and giddy; the drive 
back through the fresh air revived her somewhat, but 
the unpleasant sensations returned as she climbed the 
interminable stairs, and she went ill and dinnerless to 
bed. 

But her overstimulated imagination permitted her 
no rest. The whole night long, that circle of sunlit 
sand was projected on the blackness of her ceiling, 


298 


Her American Daughter 


and there she saw again, in a series of dissolving 
views, all the horrors of the afternoon’s drama. 
Toward daylight she fell into an uneasy doze from 
which she awoke with a blinding headache. Dolores 
came to her, full of sympathy, bringing a fragrant 
decoction of herbs — vastly better, she said, than all 
the unpalatable stuff of the medicos! Swallowing 
this like a docile child, Ray soon dropped off into a 
quiet sleep. 

When she next opened her eyes, refreshed and out 
of pain, the sunlight had already left her window. 
Dressing quickly, she sallied out into the comedor, 
where the clock informed her that it was half-past 
two. 

Benita was overjoyed at her reappearance and 
proceeded at once to set forth an appetizing lunch. 
“Senor Rosail was here at noon,” she announced 
with the most innocent of smiles. “He was much 
afflicted to hear of the senorita’s indisposition and 
left a thousand expressions of his sympathy. Also, 
he bade me tell the senorita — ” continued the little 
maid, going out for a fresh plate and returning after 
a tantalizing interval, “that tomorrow he would do 
himself the honor of calling on her again.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


This conjunction of fiestas, processions and bull 
fights had proven more or less demoralizing to all the 
business of Madrid: shops were opened and closed 
at irregular hours, and officials were seldom to be 
found at their posts. But three whole days of idle- 
ness would have been impossible to the very poor, 
whose living must always be from hand to mouth. 
The great tribe of street venders, especially, did a 
considerable business, between whiles, in Dos de 
Mayo souvenirs, paper fafns and sunshades, news- 
papers, flowers, cooling drinks — and the thousand 
and one other tricks and wiles by which they conjure 
perrachicas out of richer pockets into their own. 
Monday morning early, the Puerta del Sol was alive 
with them; they swarmed over the square, they 
waited on the street corners, they guarded all the 
avenues of approach; from every doorway, from 
behind every lamp post, they darted out and assailed 
the passer-by with shrill-voiced, good-humored per- 
tinacity, until the very hour of the procession, when 
they simultaneously disappeared, like chaff before 
the wind. 

The rogativa began at ten o'clock in the cathedral- 
church in the Calle de Toledo. Thitherward flocked 
as much of the population as the narrow streets in 
that quarter could accommodate; the Plaza Mayor 


300 


Her American Daughter 


was teeming for hours before; it was with difficulty 
that the police contrived to keep open a passageway 
for the procession itself — in which church and state 
were to be alike represented. From the Palacio Real 
came the royal cortege, the Queen in a carriage 
drawn by milk white horses, and his young majesty, 
Alphonso, riding beside it on his pony, while their 
excellencies, the Alcalde and the Gobernador Civil, 
followed behind with numbers of the court. From 
all the churches of the city came priests and deacons 
and acolytes and all manner of ecclesiastical function- 
aries. From other quarters arrived various religious 
and civil organizations, till the street could hold no 
more. 

The people pressed in as far as they durst, and 
gathered on the sidewalks all along the line of march, 
waiting there for hours ; some laughing and chatting 
of worldly affairs, some eager and curious, some 
reverent and hopeful, some a little touched with awe. 
Every class and condition was to be seen, from the 
well-to-do city merchant to the swarthy laborer of 
some outlying farm, differing widely in dress and 
speech and manner but alike in their common de- 
pendence on the bounty of Nature for a livelihood. 

Within the church of San Isidro, mass was being 
celebrated and the litany chanted ; through the open 
doorway floated the voices of priest and choir, and 
the crowd outside bowed their heads and joined in 
the responses. “Domine, qui operit coelum nubibus, 
qui producit in montibus fcenum . . . Da 


Her American Daughter 301 

pluviam terrae . . . et herbam servituti hom- 

inum.” . . . And all the while the rich notes 

of the organ rolled on in solemn undertone. 

Then, with a sudden gleam of candle-light on white 
and purple vestments, the sacred casket was brought 
forth. A low murmur ran through the waiting 
throng; somewhere among them a man’s deep voice 
pronounced the name of San Isidro, and all around 
him the people responded, “Ora pro nobis !” Those 
further away took up the cry and there was a sudden 
swaying and commotion that rippled onward to the 
outer limits of the multitude, and men and women 
crossed themselves as the procession began to move. 

The day had dawned as clear and bright as any 
in the three preceding months, but in the past hour 
the blue overhead had paled to a softer tone and 
there was a chastened glory in the sunshine; as the 
morning wore away, a thin veil seemed to float 
across the heavens and the sun at noon hung like a 
red ball in a golden mist. Beneath it, the long pro- 
cession moved serpent-like upon its way, winding 
slowly and tenuously through the narrower streets, 
spreading wider in the open plazas , absorbing into 
itself the waiting crowds upon the sidewalks, and 
growing ever longer and longer till its living coils 
were wrapped about the city. 

From the windows of their hotel on the Puerta 
del Sol, Mrs. Dering and her friends had watched 
it trailing its interminable length across the square ; 
but before the final extremity had passed them, the 
head with the precious casket — its crown jewel — 
must have circled back to the church whence it 


302 


Her American Daughter 


started; for, about half-past one o’clock, the whole 
formation began to disintegrate, and in the course 
of another half hour nothing remained but a chaotic 
mass of men, women and children, homeward-bound 
and very hungry. 

By this time, the thickening veil of mist had com- 
pletely obscured the sun, and the air was so damp 
and chilly that Russell, who was just setting out to 
pay his farewell call in the Calle Mayor, decided that 
he would carry an umbrella. His anticipations were 
evidently shared by those without, for many of the 
returning pilgrims walked along with faces upturned 
to the sombre skies. On the opposite corner, two 
blue-coated guardias were struggling with a sun- 
browned tatterdemalion who appeared desirous of 
continuing, in the uncouth fashion of his native 
village, a rogativa of his own ; he wore a heavy coil 
of rusted chain twisted about his neck and shoulders, 
and in a frenzv born of religious enthusiasm — or 
some as potent but profaner spirit — was beating his 
head and breast and crying aloud to the misty 
heavens for rain, rain, rain and pardon for his sins ! 
It might have been a survival of the old Baal-wor- 
ship, so grotesque did it seem in a Christian city of 
today. The hoarse outcries could be heard long 
after his custodians had hustled him down the street : 
“Agua, San Isidro ! Agua — agua !” 

Russell was still gazing after them in protestant 
aloofness when a familiar voice at his elbow accosted 
him with brusque unceremony. 

“Say — is Miss Ray lunching at the hotel ?” 


Her American Daughter 303 

“Why, no! Isn’t she at home? I’m on my way 
there now.” 

“Hasn’t she been at the hotel this morning? 
Hasn’t Mrs. Dering seen her — or Miss Gladys — or 
any of them?” 

“If they had, I must have known it; for I have 
been in their company for the past three hours. But 
you don’t mean to tell me that she’s — missing !” 

“That’s just what I do mean ! She went out early 
this morning, and we thought perhaps she’d been 
cut off by the procession or was watching it from 
the hotel; but if you haven’t seen her — Great Scott! 
where can she be ?” 

Russell made no answer; to his mind an unwel- 
come suspicion had immediately presented itself: 
Ray knew of his intended visit and had chosen 
deliberately to avoid him. It was not a thought that 
he could possibly share ; so, for the moment, he kept 
silence. Impatient of his unresponsiveness, his 
companion turned away from him to scan, with 
anxious blue eyes, the heterogeneous crowd of dis- 
banded supplicants swarming over the Puerta del 
Sol. Presently, Russell inquired, “Does the senora 
seem anxious?” 

Peter shrugged dubiously. “Fact is,” he said, 
“we didn’t miss her till lunch — everybody thinking 
she was with somebody else; then, when she didn’t 
turn up, we felt sure she was with the ladies of your 
party. But knowing Miss Ray's marvelous pro- 
pensity for getting into scrapes, I thought I’d better 
come over and see.” 


304 Her American Daughter 

“Could she have followed the procession? The 
pressure of the crowd might have taken her along 
in spite of herself.” 

“Hardly; it wasn’t like a mob,” contended Peter. 
“At any street corner she could easily have dropped 
out. I think I’ll inquire at Cook’s, if their office is 
open; she might have gone there for letters or 
money. — Well, this is good-bye, I suppose. You 
are off on the evening train ?” 

Russell glanced at his watch. “That depends. 
It is now ten minutes after two; if Miss Woodward 
hasn’t returned at the end of the next hour, my 
departure is indefinitely postponed. I should like to 
interview Dolores; you’ll find me there on your 
return — and if you bring us no news, we must 
organize a search party at once.” 

“Now you are talking!” applauded the other, 
while the shadow lifted from his smooth young fore- 
head. “Be with you again in fifteen minutes,” and 
he swung away at a brisk pace up the avenue. 

With a lover’s natural egotism, Russell clung 
obstinately to his first idea until he saw the blank 
disappointment on Benita’s countenance as she 
hastily answered his ring; the same expression was 
legible on the faces in the comedor, where Dolores, 
the Staffords and Don Francisco were still lingering 
around the uncleared table. So far, their anxiety had 
been unconfessed; but, as Russell disclaimed any 
knowledge of Ray’s movements, they exchanged 
furtive glances of dismay, and Mrs. Stafford inter- 
jected numberless vague and inadequate hypotheses 
which were set aside one after another by her 
husband. 


Her American Daughter 305 

“Considering that we have given up the studio, 
that the Museum is closed for the day, that no shops 
have been open since ten o’clock and that Miss Ray 
has no other acquaintances in Madrid with whom 
she could have spent the entire morning, her absence 
is inexplicable to me,” said Mr. Stafford. “And I 
agree with Mr. Russell that, if Peter brings us no 
news of her, we must institute a search — though 
where to begin it, I haven’t the least idea.” 

Don Francisco moved uneasily in his seat and 
twisted the curled tips of his sable mustaches; his 
little black eyes were dilated with worried bewilder- 
ment; he opened his lips to speak, hesitated and 
sighed heavily instead. Russell inquired if Ray had 
made any mention of her errand, and receiving no 
answer demanded who had seen her leave the house. 
Dolores explained that Benita had opened the door 
for her, and the little maid then volunteered her 
opinion that the senorita had carried a letter to post. 
At this point, Peter’s step was heard in the hall, and 
all eyes were turned on him as he came dejectedly in. 

“They don’t know a blessed thing,” he sighed, 
dropping into a chair. “She hasn’t been there since 
last week. But I got one piece of information that 
bothers me a good deal. You all know that Miss 
Ray has sold her portrait — ” and he looked inquir- 
ingly at Russell, who said, without any allusion to 
his own unbounded surprise, that he had already 
heard so from Mrs. Dering. “Well, a few days ago, 
Miss Ray cashed that check at Cook’s and took it 
all — a trifle over three hundred duros — in Spanish 
notes. Now why did she do that when tomorrow 
we are leaving Spain ? She couldn’t have blown in 


306 Her American Daughter 

all of it already — at least, she isn't given to that sort 
of thing. There’s only one place that ever tempts 
her to a mild extravagance, and that is — the Ras- 
tro.” 

Mr. Stafford and Russell exchanged glances and 
the latter rose from his seat. “ Would she have gone 
down there alone with that amount on her person?” 

“It’s a question,” said Peter. “I see you don’t 
fancy the notion any more than I did. The honesty 
of that quarter is by no means above suspicion — and 
Miss Ray is as trustful as a six-year-old child !” He 
struck the table by way of emphasis; and Dolores, 
who had been listening blankly to his report, 
appealed to Russell for a translation. As he briefly 
explained, a swift change convulsed her features and 
she lifted one hand to her throat. 

“Have no fear of that, senores,” she cried huskily, 
shaking her head. “Have no fear of that! The 
senorita never carried that money to the Rastro, for 
she no longer had it to spend. She herself would 
never be willing to tell what became of those three 
hundred duros, but it is fitting — it is only right that 
you should hear 

“Your honors know that I am a widow, but I 
think only Don Francisco is aware that I have a 
brother living. He owns a little farm just outside of 
Seville. That farm was our whole patrimony; but 
when I married, Jose — my husband — resigned all 
my rights forever to Pablo and my younger sister, 
and Pablo mortgaged the farm to pay off my sister’s 
portion. But all that is of no consequence — only, 
when my brother also married and his first child was 
born, they named the boy Jose, after my husband. 


Her American Daughter 


307 


That was seventeen years ago. Pablo has always 
been unfortunate ; he is poorer now than he was then 
— poorer in everything but children ! And, welcome 
as each of those little ones would be to empty arms 
in a silent house, they are held as doubtful blessings 
when there is no money to put food into their mouths 
or shoes upon their feet. I sometimes think” — and 
the senora’s eyes wandered to Mrs. Stafford's face — 
“that if the Holy Mother were permitted, she would 
arrange these things in a different way. 

Well, to poor Pablo’s misfortunes has been added, 
this winter, a crippled leg ; so there is no one but the 
lad Jose to work the farm and make bread for that 
growing family. It has been a hard spring, too, 
with the fields drying up — Ah ! but see ! Blessed be 
San Isidro, for the rain has come at last!” She 
pointed to the window and, sure enough, a faint, 
light mist was drifting downward, scarcely enough 
to fog the panes. 

“If it falls any harder before night, it will be a first 
class nineteeth century miracle,” murmured Peter 
in English. “But why the efficiency of the good 
Saint should be limited to such times as his poor 
old bones are being trotted around the streets is 
something that passes my comprehension !” 

Russell made a slight movement of impatience. 
“You had something more to tell us, senora,” he 
gently reminded her — though by now he thought he 
could divine the rest. 

“Si, senor, I have to tell you of the crowning sor- 
row that came to us not much more than a week ago. 
It was on Wednesday that I received the letter saying 


308 


Her American Daughter 


that Jose, our little lad — only seventeen yet already 
doing a man’s part, our hope and comfort, the staff of 
our old age, little Jose — had been drawn in the last 
conscription !” 

Now it was to Francisco that her eyes appealed, to 
Francisco, who for the last six months had been 
dressing into shape “the raw material from the prov- 
inces who knew to the full all their piteous inepti- 
tude and the vain efforts made for their release by 
sweethearts and wives, dependent mothers and sis- 
ters; to Francisco, who had seen them march away 
by the thousand, and who was soon to follow them 
himself. “Ah-h !” he exclaimed, and gravely shook 
his head. “There is nothing to be done, senora, 
unless — ” 

“Listen!” cried Dolores, while two bright tears 
ran down her cheeks unheeded. “I, too, thought 
there was nothing to be done, — for where could I 
raise the money for a substitute? Not one duro of my 
savings left in the bank and my house soon to be 
empty ! I was sitting out there in the hall, weeping for 
very hopelessness, when the senorita came in and 
found me. Down upon her knees she fell, and took 
my head between her hands. ‘Madre,’ she said, ‘tell 
me your trouble!’ And when I had done so she 
laughed aloud — a low soft peal of joy. ‘Be com- 
forted !’ she said, ‘Jose — our Jose — shall never go to 
Cuba, for your daughter can give you the three 
hundred duros !’ ” 

There was a silence as the senora finished, a silence 
that no one cared to break. She had told her story 
very simply, but toward the last her tone had fairly 


Her American Daughter 309 

rung with pride. — Just such pride as is heard in the 
tender voice of many a happy mother when some 
treasured trifle, the earliest tribute of a child’s affec- 
tion, is displayed to privileged and sympathetic eyes, 
and she says, as she unfolds the bungled work of the 
baby’s fingers or points to the first fruits of her 
boy’s loving self denial, “My little son — or my little 
daughter — gave it to me!” And this gift of which 
Dolores boasted, for the first time in all her childless 
years, was in itself a precious thing. — But even as 
she proclaimed it, she remembered the absence of 
the giver ; her voice failed in a sob and she covered 
her face with her brown old hands. 

Presently Russell bent over her and spoke in an 
undertone, and together the two went out through 
the yellow portieres. Mrs. Stafford wiped her eyes 
with furtive dabs of her handkerchief and Peter, 
under his breath, softly whistled a tune. It is char- 
acteristic of very young men, when their feelings are 
touched and words are lacking, that they find it easier 
to whistle than to keep silence. 

The young lieutenant pushed back his chair, and 
fell into an attitude before the window ; but under all 
his affectations he, too, was sincerely moved. More- 
over, he was filled with a vague alarm, with sus- 
picions that he had no right to share. Never in all 
his life had his commonplace but honest soul been 
vexed by so subtle a problem. “The honor of a gen- 
tleman and a soldier” had heretofore been his touch- 
stone ; but now he found his honor and his chivalry 
at odds. He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, 
the three artists were deep in a murmured confer- 


310 


Her American Daughter 


ence. This was his opportunity. If he lingered 
another moment, he might be tempted beyond his 
strength. 

“Hello !” exclaimed Peter, looking up as the hall 
door clicked. “Well, I call that very shabby of 
Francisco ; he might at least have offered his advice 
before he left !” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Three o'clock had already struck, and Russell and 
Peter were again crossing the Puerta del Sol. Mr. 
Stafford had gone to the American Legation for 
advice and assistance; but the two younger men, 
impatient of red tape and official deliberation, had at 
once begun the search by following up Benita's clue. 
It had led them across the street to a tobacconist's 
shop — which, supplying as it did the necessaries of 
life, had thriftily opened its doors — and there they 
had learned that before nine that morning the senor- 
ita had weighed, stamped and posted a letter. Further 
than this, the proprietor could tell them nothing ; so 
they had left the shop, as much at sea as before, and 
now were adrift without even the compass of conjec- 
ture. It is true that Russell had discovered, during his 
conversation with the senora, that she at least had a 
positive suspicion; he knew whither it tended but 
remained uninfluenced himself. Dolores — he 
thought — was always prone to consider everything 
from the romantic side ; but the casual persecutions 
of Silvela had not indicated that he was very much 
in love : as a possible agent in Ray’s disappearance, 
he was still negligible, — like the down-drifting mist, 
which was unopposed as yet by a single umbrella. 

In the gray light the square wore a forlorn and 
deserted aspect ; the crowd had disappeared, and the 


312 Her American Daughter 

few remaining pedestrians were easy prey for such 
of the beggars and street venders as had now 
returned to their haunts. Ignoring patiently many 
assaults from these gentry, the two Americans finally 
came to a pause beside a lamp-post; there, as they 
were exchanging a few last words of advice before 
starting on separate lines of inquiry, a saucy black- 
eyed newsgirl slipped a paper into Peter’s coat pocket 
and held out a beguiling hand. 

“Give you good afternoon, senor mio ! Ten centi- 
mos, if you please.” 

Being in no mood for badinage — although this 
was no other than the ex-pin-seller who had fur- 
nished Ray with so many jokes at his expense — Peter 
fumbled for the coin without a word. 

The little Spaniard eyed him with mournful 
coquetry. “Is it true that my senorito is going away 
tomorrow ?” 

“Who told you so, Manuela ?” he demanded, offer- 
ing her a silver coin which she slipped between her 
milk-white teeth as she counted out his change from a 
kerchief full of coppers. 

“Your honor never did,” was the indistinct 
reproach, “but the senorita said so this morning.” 

“When?” cried the young man, seizing her arm. 
“Here, Russell! Come back a minute — this girl 
knows something. This morning, querida? What 
time? Where? Oh! deuce take the change — que- 
dese con la vuelta — I don’t want it. Just answer my 
question. Donde esta — estaba — Oh, thunder ! Rus- 
sell, you talk. I can’t think of the fool jargon.” 


Her American Daughter 


313 


“What ails him ?” gasped Manuela, dropping the 
coin from her lips like the gifted maiden of the fairy 
tale ; it spun musically on the pavement and clinked 
to rest at Russell’s feet. He quietly picked it up and 
restored it, saw the dingy kerchief knotted securely 
and deposited in the pocket of the owner ; then, with 
skillful questioning, he extracted all she knew. 

Her encounter with Ray had taken place on this 
very square, before the passage of the rogativa ; the 
exact time was indeterminable, but as the newsgirl 
was sure that she herself had left the Puerta del Sol 
before the big clock on the building of the Ministerio 
de Gobernacion said half-past nine, it must have 
been previous to that hour. The senorita, it seemed, 
was not a regular patron ; but this morning she had 
bought a paper, inquired if business was steady and 
wished the young vender good luck and goodbye. 
While she was still talking, a gentleman had 
accosted her — “un caballero de tono,” said the Span- 
ish girl, with a flower in his buttonhole and a beauti- 
ful slender cane; and the senorita had been just as 
blind and deaf to his presence as if a cross old duenna 
kept watch ; nevertheless, he had bided his time and 
had followed her as she walked away. 

“In what direction ?” Russell asked. 

The newsgirl paused to consider. “I was standing 
over yonder, caballero, and the senorita went around 
the corner with the lechuguino a few paces behind — 
Oh! I swear to your soul he was a popinjay!” she 
asseverated, in the relishing phraseology of the gente 
comun; then, dumping her bundle of papers against 
the side of the big lamp-post, she seized upon Rus- 


314 Her American Daughter 

sell’s umbrella, twirled it airily in her slim brown 
fingers, cocked her pretty head on one side, winked a 
sloe-black eye and strutted up the sidewalk in roguish 
and unmistakable mimicry. 

Peter grinned in spite of himself ; for, beneath the 
inbred grace of the little olive-skinned damsel, he 
detected an impudence that was closely akin to the 
“cheek” of her co-professionals over the water. But 
the humorous side of the performance was altogether 
lost upon Russell, who thought he recognized the 
impersonation; his level brows drew together in a 
worried frown as he turned to his companion. 

“Did Miss Woodward ever tell you anything 
about Silvela?” 

“Who ?” asked Peter. 

“The man who spoke to her on the afternoon of 
Holy Thursday — her Carnival admirer.” 

“Oh, that fellow!” cried Peter. “Why, you cer- 
tainly don’t suspect her of encouraging such a — ” 

“Encouraging ! Well, no — but evidently you are 
not in possession of all the facts.” He hesitated, and 
as the newsgirl had come back to them, dismissed her 
with another piece of silver and an injunction to keep 
her eyes and ears open if she wanted to earn more. 
“Now Peter,” said he, “I want you to understand, 
first and foremost, that my interest in Miss Wood- 
ward springs from something deeper than mere 
friendship. I would be the last one in this world — ” 
he declared, forgetting, as men ever do ! — “to enter- 
tain a doubt of her maidenly dignity. And although 
I have little reason to hope that she cares for me, I’m 
not such a fool as to be jealous of a fellow like Sil- 
vela.” 


Her American Daughter 315 

Peter nodded, blushing in sheer sympathy. “Skip 
all that,” he said, “and come to business. I guess I 
know both of you too well to need much explanation. 
Who is this Silvela — and what do you really sus- 
pect?” 

It was a long story and the telling of it consumed 
many minutes, but when Russell had summed up the 
evidence the other shook his head. “I don’t see that 
you’ve got any case,” he contended. “The man may 
have spoken to her again this morning, but she was 
within a block of her own door and, if he annoyed 
her, she could have easily shaken him off. To tell 
you the truth, I don’t think Manuela’s information 
is worth any more than the tobacconist’s. We want 
news of a later date — she’s been missing now for 
more than six hours. I haven’t much faith in the 
Madrid police, but I’m blest if I don’t think we’d bet- 
ter apply to ’em.” 

“You may, if you like; but I’m going to interview 
that Spaniard. At least he can give me later infor- 
mation than the newsgirl’s.” 

“That’s so,” Peter granted, “but I wouldn’t let him 
see that you think he knows more than he ought.” 

“Of course not ; that would be tantamount to say- 
ing — Sir, I think you are a scoundrel ! and I have no 
adequate grounds for such a charge. I’ll apply to 
him just as one gentleman would to any other for 
what news he can give me of a common acquaint- 
ance.” 

Before carrying out this resolution, however, Rus- 
sell returned to his hotel and explained to Mrs. Der- 
ing the cause of his detention in Madrid. If his 


316 Her American Daughter 

reasons for considering himself necessary to the 
search appeared less cogent to her than they did to 
him, she never betrayed the fact. Indeed, she pro- 
fessed a perfect willingness to wait over another day 
so that her courier might also be pressed into service. 
But Russell strongly advised against this : there was 
no knowing yet, he said, how things would turn out ; 
if Miss Woodward had met with any accident, she 
might be unfit to travel for days — or even weeks. 
Dr. Hazeldean, unfortunately, had an appointment 
in Paris; his immediate departure was imperative, 
and his mother and sister would of course accompany 
him. And, after a prolonged discussion, Mrs. Dering 
finally decided to carry out her original program — 
for the sake of Aunt Elizabeth, who of late had been 
quite ailing and was very dependent on the Doctor’s 
attentions. So the goodbyes were spoken — a little 
hastily, perhaps — and then Russell betook himself to 
the Cafe Fornos to ask for Silvela’s address, which 
he obtained without difficulty. It proved to be in the 
neighborhood of the Plaza San Domingo — where 
Ray had encountered the mascaron on that Carnival 
Sunday — and although it was within easy walking 
distance, time now was precious, so Russell hailed a 
passing cab and urged the cochero to his best speed. 

The Silvela mansion was significant of the family 
traits and fortunes. It stood upon a corner — a huge, 
square, rough-cast brick building with a plaster coat 
of arms displayed over the door; the walls had at 
some time been colored a deep Pompeian red, but in 
many places now the surface was mildewed and the 
paint was scaling ; the simulated granite cornices and 


Her American Daughter 317 

window copings had evidently been the master work 
of some artist house-painter, for wherever intact 
they would still have deceived the eye, had not the 
cracked and crumbling plaster here and there made 
very manifest the cheap expedient. Earlier gener- 
ations of Silvelas had always had their entrances and 
exits beneath the family escutcheon and through the 
wide hall with its winding stairway of black, time- 
polished oak; but the vices of the present representa- 
tive of the elder line and the failings of his father 
before him had shut them out from the privileges of 
that portal. The lace curtains now hanging at the 
balconied windows of the first piso belonged to a 
respectable merchant who could boast more pesetas 
than pedigree; and Teodoro lived, where his father 
had died, on an upper floor that had formerly served 
the retainers of the household. It was reached 
through a side entrance and — at seasonable hours — 
by a hydraulic lift; but as the habits, of the gay 
young Don seldom allowed him to avail himself of 
that modern amelioration, every midnight he found 
his way with difficulty up a long flight of narrow 
crooked stairs. 

Russell, however, was spared that discomfort as 
the elevator was running; it carried him up to the 
fourth piso and left him on a dark landing before a 
heavy door at which he rung twice without receiving 
any response. At last appeared a discreet man- 
servant, whose flushed countenance might have been 
owing to an undue haste in the assumption of his 
coat, and the visitor was ushered into a comfortable 
apartment that, in essentials, resembled too many 


318 


Her American Daughter 


bachelor sanctums to require a close description. In 
such things, however, as create the distinctive atmos- 
phere of a room, it betrayed the characteristics of the 
owner. There was in all the furnishings — which had 
doubtless begun their term of service on the lower 
piso — a curious mingling of genuine excellence and 
good taste with ostentation, sham and shabbiness. 
One felt instinctively that a decaying fortune was 
not sufficient to account for this ; the suspicion arose 
that, at some time in its history, a coarser and less 
honest shoot had been grafted upon the family tree. 
Such, indeed, was the case: and Teodoro was a twig 
of that spurious limb ; while Don Enrique, though he 
came of a younger branch, had far more of the true 
fibre of his noble ancestry. 

The discreet manservant departed with the visit- 
or’s card, and Russell walked over to one of the tall 
front windows and waited there with his arms 
behind him, his eyes on the street without. * In his 
mind was rankling the memory of the Spaniard’s 
unrebuked impertinence to Ray. It was her own 
action that afternoon that had hitherto tied his hands, 
but now that he was under the man’s roof he felt 
his anger rising hot within him and the barriers of 
his self-control breaking down. Common sense told 
him, however, that this was no time to pick a quarrel ; 
the questions he had to ask must be put with civility. 

After an appreciable interval, a door opened on his 
left ; he turned sharply and perceived Silvela stand- 
ing on the threshold, scrutinizing the bit of paste- 


Her American Daughter 319 

board in his hand. The American quietly waited. At 
last, with a blended insolence and grace, the other 
came toward him. 

“Caballero Ro-sail ? I kiss your hand/’ 

Never before had the ceremonious compliment 
grated so on Russell’s ear, and his own reply, despite 
its formal phrasing, rung with impatience. “Don 
Teodoro de Silvela may remember that through the 
introduction of Miss Woodward I have the honor of 
his acquaintance.” 

The Spaniard lifted his black brows and smiled, a 
distinctly unpleasant smile. “He also remembers, 
caballero, that at the time of the introduction Sehor 
Rosail did not appear to be highly sensible of the 
honor.” 

This was so true that Russell bit his lip. “I deeply 
regret having lost that opportunity of making clear 
to Senor de Silvela the exact degree of my esteem for 
him,” was his ambiguous apology. “My excuse must 
be that I knew less of his character then than I do 
now.” 

“May I inquire the source of Sehor Rosail’s fur- 
ther enlightenment ?” 

“No, caballero, you may not.” 

“Then, perhaps I may ask to what I am indebted 
for this visit.” 

“To be perfectly candid with you, you owe it 
entirely to the uneasiness of Miss Woodward’s 
friends. She has been missing since nine o’clock this 
morning and the last person seen with her happens to 
be yourself.” 


320 


Her American Daughter 


“Indeed! And who was your informant? It 
would seem that the person who saw us both would 
be as competent to relieve your uneasiness as I.” 

“Hardly/' disputed Russell, “my informant being 
only a little newspaper vender on the Puerta del Sol. 
Miss Woodward was buying a paper when you 
addressed her and, although her reception of you 
must have been far from encouraging, you followed 
her around the corner and out of sight." The 
speaker’s tongue had slipped its bonds, but now as 
he went on he forced a more conciliatory tone. “If 
you can throw any light on her movements after 
that, caballero — if you can tell us when and where 
you parted from her, it would greatly facilitate our 
search." 

The Spaniard eyed his visitor meaningly. “How 
do I know that I would be doing the senorita a ser- 
vice ? She may have her own reasons for wishing to 
disappear." 

“Repeat that," threatened Russell, “and you’ll 
repent it!" 

“A hundred thousand pardons!" cried Teodoro, 
laughing softly ; he always experienced a keen satis- 
faction in making other people lose their tempers 
and would apologize a dozen times a day in order to 
repeat the offense. “I had no idea I was treading 
upon such delicate ground. Senor Rosail is doubt- 
less the accepted suitor of his pretty country- 
woman ?" 

“That we are both Americans is enough. Do you 
— or do you not intend to answer my questions ?’’ 


Her American Daughter 


321 


So far they had both remained standing, but now 
Silvela with a friendly smile motioned his guest to a 
seat. As the belated courtesy was coldly declined, he 
shrugged his shoulders in mild protest and, propping 
himself gracefully against a chair, took out a cigar- 
ette and lit it before replying. “Isn’t it a trifle unfair, 
caballero, to expect me to answer your questions 
when you refuse to answer mine? But I will not 
attempt to deny that I had this morning the pleasure 
of seeing and conversing with your — your country- 
zvoman. I met her, as you have been truly informed, 
on the Puerta del Sol and — far from being discour- 
aged — I was permitted to accompany her to the near- 
est glove shop, where we parted with mutual regret. 
But you look skeptical ! Is it possible that you find it 
hard to accept this statement? My dear caballero, 
the little coquetries of our — our countrywomen are 
very apt to go on behind our backs as they do before 
our faces. One should never take them too deeply to 
heart !” He laughed again and blew a smoke wreath 
at a photograph on the opposite wall in which a lively 
soubrette of the Teatro de la Comedia liberally dis- 
played “the neatest foot and ankle in Madrid.” 

“Be advised, amigo, and when one fair proves 
fickle, console yourself with . . . others.” 

The grim composure of Russell’s countenance 
would have done credit to his Puritan forefathers; 
erect, rigid, his shoulders squared in military fash- 
ion, he looked down from his superior height on the 
easy lounging figure of the young Lothario and 
demanded simply : “Where is this glove shop — and 
in what direction did Miss Woodward go when you 
parted ?” 


322 Her American Daughter 

“The shop is on the Calle del Arenal, we entered it 
together, the senorita made her purchase and bade 
me goodbye, I did not accompany her to the door 
for the reason that the pretty proprietress was then 
engaged in fitting a glove on my hand. I have no 
idea where your — countrywoman went afterward. 
. . . But if she should ere long send me a mes- 

sage, caballero, it will give me great pleasure to 
inform you.” 

At this last speech, a weaker character would have 
given way to resentment, but Russell was not to be 
diverted now from his first object. He bowed his 
adieu, was conducted to the stairway by the discreet 
servant, descended to the pavement, woke up his 
cochero and was driven at full speed toward the 
Arenal. 

This is one of the many thoroughfares radiating 
from the Puerta del Sol, and is the nearest of all to the 
Calle Mayor, with which it forms an acute angle. At 
that point, Russell dismissed his cab and, following 
on foot the route indicated by the little newsgirl, dis- 
covered the glove shop a few doors from the corner. 
Its shutters were still up. But he identified it at once 
by the sign — a gilded pasteboard hand, bearing the 
legend, C. Velasco. Guantes. 

Now that he had found it, the blank expression 
of those closed shutters mocked his impatience. He 
stepped backward and inspected the tall narrow 
building from its tiled roof down to the pavement : 
there were six stories, and all but the upper row of 
windows were closed. The shop, small as it seemed 
to be, occupied almost the entire front of the ground 


Her American Daughter 323 

floor ; beside it was an open doorway, which doubt- 
less afforded an entrance to the upper pisos. This 
must of course be in the charge of a portero, and 
Russell determined to find him. 

The afternoon was now far spent, and the clouds 
had grown thick and heavy; even on the street the 
light was beginning to fail, and the obscurity of that 
narrow passage was such that, before he had gone 
in a dozen paces, he stumbled over an obstruction 
and would have fallen had he not thrown out a hand 
to save himself. What he caught hold of was a 
man’s rough coat ; the wearer was humped up in a 
low chair with one extended foot barring the pass- 
age. Here, evidently, was the portero, sound asleep. 
Russell seized his shoulders and energetically shook 
him, shouting at the same time in his ear; but all 
to no purpose. Finally, he struck a match, held it 
close to the other’s face and lifted the battered felt 
hat that covered his brow : the light revealed a griz- 
zled head, a stubby white beard, a flushed and 
wrinkled countenance and two bleared black eyes, 
half closed. The American stooped his own face 
lower and sniffed suspiciously. 

“Pah !” he cried, shrinking away in disgust, “the 
man is drunk !” 

Nothing was to be elicited from such a source, so 
he returned to the street and wandered up and down 
the sidewalk in a hopeless quandary. To left and 
right of the glove shop were a jeweler’s and a bakery ; 
but the latter, only, was illuminated and open. Step- 
ping inside, he accosted the plump, motherly woman 
behind the counter, who was busy at that moment 


324 Her American Daughter 

serving a customer with the odd little basket-shaped 
rolls peculiar to Spanish ovens. Into a paper bag 
she dropped them, counting aloud as she smiled 
across at the newcomer. 

“Uno, dos, tres — perdoneme uste un momentito, 
caballero — cuatro, cinco . . . once, doce. 

Bien!” and she tossed the money into a drawer, 
folded her fat arms on the counter and inquired: 
“Now, how can I serve your honor? — not with any 
of my bread, I’ll wager !” 

There was something so kindly and honest in her 
face that Russell was moved to confide at least a 
part of his anxieties; she listened with round-eyed 
sympathy and readily gave him all the information in 
her power. 

The proprietress next door was Dona Carlota 
Velasco, a pretty young widow who retained with 
the business the name under which her husband had 
successfully established it. With her lived old Vel- 
asco, who held the post of portero to the building ; he 
was a very worthless character and his daughter-in- 
law had much ado to keep him sober. At ten o’clock 
this morning the glove shop, like all other places of 
business, must have closed for the rogativa; but until 
that hour the good woman had been doing such a 
steady trade herself that she had had no eyes for 
her neighbors, she couldn’t even recall having seen 
the American senorita pass by. This afternoon, 
however, she had heard that Dona Carlota had just 
met with a serious accident, having fallen from a 
step-ladder as she was reaching to an upper shelf, 
and as she had no family to care for her properly, she 


Her American Daughter 


325 


had gone away to a hospital “ — though, Heaven 
knows, it is not what I should have done in her 
place !” cried the plump senora. “Far better to hire a 
neighbor’s help and lie in one’s own good bed than 
trust oneself to a parcel of doctors who can’t cure a 
few bruises without first carving one up! — But to 
think that the moment the poor girl’s back was 
turned old Velasco should have made a beast of him- 
self ! Well, if he should die of the drink before his 
daughter-in-law comes home, she will have little 
cause to regret him — and that is the blessed truth !” 

So saying, she turned to welcome a new customer ; 
and Russell, feeling that he was perhaps in the way, 
thanked her and withdrew. As he pushed open the 
glass doors he became vaguely aware that the pave- 
ment outside was spattered with raindrops; but no 
consequent idea suggesting itself, he wandered down 
the street in a drizzling shower, permeated by an 
unrecognized sense of physical discomfort — until a 
man brushed by him with an open umbrella. Then, 
mechanically, he raised his own. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


We must now look back ten hours or so, in order 
to determine how true was that testimony for which 
Russell was at such pains to find corroboration or 
disproof. 

At nine o’clock — when the sighs of the panting 
earth had just faintly misted the morning heavens, 
when the yellow sunshine was paling and the slant 
shadows were weakening and the gentle air first 
hinted of a coming change — Ray Woodward, walk- 
ing rapidly round the corner of the Puerta del Sol, 
glanced across at the balconied front of a big hotel 
with eyes that were wide and wistful. She keenly 
regretted having missed Mr. Russell’s visit on the 
preceding day, yet she quailed at the thought of 
another public leave-taking. She wondered at what 
hour he would call, and decided irritably that it would 
probably depend on Mrs. Dering’s caprices; but no 
sooner had this suspicion formulated itself in her 
mind than she colored deeply, with a sudden sense of 
shame, and resolutely turned her eyes and thoughts 
away. A feverish restlessness had driven her from 
the house; but out here, alone, under the chastened 
sky, she was determined to regain her mental poise, 
to win back at least a temporary calm, for without 
these she dared not meet him. So she hurried on, 
undisturbed by the persistent street venders, to 


Her American Daughter 


327 


whose attacks she had become habituated — it was 
second nature, now, to ask “pardon for God's sake" 
as she declined, with a shake of the head, matches, 
pins or a share in a lottery ticket; she lingered a 
moment, however, to buy a handful of lilacs from the 
old flower woman — who no longer had wild violets to 
sell, and then Manuela’s smiling face invited a 
friendly greeting. The unexpected apparition of the 
“caballero de tono” ruffled her consciousness with a 
merely superficial resentment, he had no place in the 
deeper currents of her thought ; and on parting with 
the newsgirl, she walked on toward the glove shop 
without realizing that he had followed. Perceiving 
this for the first time as she paused at the door, she 
opened it quickly and latched it carefully behind her. 
Then she bade good morning to Dona Carlota, who 
responded affably, with a quick gleam of white teeth 
between her full, pomgranite lips. This young 
Spanishwoman, although her features were decidedly 
heavy, was rather good to look upon on account of 
the richness of her coloring and the ripe curves of her 
plump figure ; her eyes were fine and dark and long- 
lashed, her dusky hair grew down in a peak on her 
narrow forehead, her black eyebrows curved archly 
and the glow on her smooth olive cheeks might have 
been rubbed in with the petals of a Jacqueminot 
rose. 

Ray presented a slim hand for measurement, — she 
could never remember the size of her gloves and 
shoes by foreign computation, — and Dona Carlota 
had deftly encircled it with her ribbon when the shop 
door opened to admit a second customer. He was 


328 Her American Daughter 

j 

evidently a favored one; for the proprietress chose 
at random a box from her shelves, uncovered it 
before the American girl, and then devoted her eyes 
and ears and hands to the service of Don Teodoro. 
He leaned on the counter at Ray’s side, and as she 
inspected the box of gloves — all of which were in 
delicate evening shades — she felt her color slowly 
rising with annoyance. She knew, without looking, 
that his gaze was fastened upon her; his breath 
. stirred the soft loose locks around her temple. 

“Senorita !” he murmured. 

She drew aside with icy dignity. “None of these 
will suit me, Doha Carlota. Have you nothing in 
fawn color — or tan?” 

An indifferent response and a second hap-hazard 
choice from the shelves, another attempt on the part 
of the man to address her, and a sudden conscious- 
ness (born of that sixth sense which some women, 
most children and all animals possess) of a malevo- 
lent influence in the atmosphere, prompted Ray to 
withdraw immediately. 

“When you are at leisure, senora, I will come 
back.” 

“The shop must close at ten!” cried the proprie- 
tress hastily. 

“Bueno, I will be in time,” and she closed the door 
behind her, drawing a long breath of relief in the 
free, fresh air outside. “I wonder — ” she mused, 
“if that man’s character is as noxious as I feel it! 
Don’t tell me thoughts aren’t things ! I can see them 


Her American Daughter 329 

buzzing*, black and venomous, about his head!” 
Then, with something between a shrug and a shud- 
der, she broke into a laugh at her own vehemence. 

Farther up the street was a book store, to which 
she bent her steps in quest of some pleasant reading 
to alleviate the tedium of the long journey ahead of 
her. For the next half hour, she hung over piles of 
periodicals and, before making a selection, took into 
her confidence the friendly, gray-bearded, bright- 
eyed old salesman. In his opinion, the range of 
choice open to senoritas was very limited, and the 
only English novels on his shelves were much-too- 
familiar classics ; but Ray finally compromised on 
Pepita Jimenez, a volume of the immortal Tartarin’s 
adventures and a stray copy of St. Nicholas, and 
came away, well pleased. 

Had it not been that all the leisured folk of the 
city were now directing their steps toward the church 
of San Isidro, so that the side streets were for the 
most part deserted, some one must have taken note 
of her as she hurried down the Arenal, at a quarter of 
ten o’clock, with her books clasped under her arm, 
the nodding lilacs tucked in her belt and a contented 
dimple still lurking about her lips. Arrived at the 
sign of the gilded hand, she found the door still 
unbarred, and to her first glance within, the shop 
seemed empty. Then, from behind the counter, 
came a low moan, a hysteric sob. Startled and con- 
cerned, she pressed forward and looked over. 

On the floor, in an attitude expressive of intense 
suffering, lay Dona Carlota ; beside her, was a fallen 


330 


Her American Daughter 


step ladder and an overturned box of gloves. She 
lifted a tearstained face and dumbly beckoned for 
assistance. 

Ray dropped her books on the counter and hur- 
ried round behind. “What can I do for you!” she 
exclaimed, kneeling pitifully. “Are you very much 
hurt?” 

Carlota moaned again, but her face revealed so 
much more of fright than of actual pain that Ray 
slipped one arm under the plump shoulders and lifted 
with all her strength; a shrill scream forced her to 
desist, and then the Spanishwoman gave way to a 
fresh fit of hysterics. 

“What am I to do?” demanded the other, in deep 
perplexity. “I can’t leave you thus, and you won’t 
let me help you — Is there any one I can call ?” 

Immediately, Carlota’s moans became articulate. 
She was sure her injuries were internal, she would 
have to be taken to a hospital ; but only strong and 
skillful hands must attempt to lift her — or she would 
die of the pain! It would be necessary to send for 
an ambulance. Meanwhile, everything she had in 
the world would be left unprotected — and the Span- 
iards were such thieves ! There was no one she could 
trust, — old Velasco was an infant, an incapable ! But 
some one must look after the shop — and the money 
in the till — and all her clothing and jewelry and 
household possessions in the adjoining rooms. If the 
senorita would of her graciousness bring Senora 
Ruiz, she was very stupid but thoroughly honest, 
and might be trusted to lock things up. 

“Why certainly!” cried Ray. “Where does she 
live ? — in the neighborhood ?” 


Her American Daughter 


33i 


“Upstairs,” sobbed Carlota, “on the sixth floor — 
what am I saying? — on the fifth floor, senorita — up 
four flights on the fifth floor. Ay de mi ! Ay de mi ! 
And she is very deaf, senorita, — oh, very deaf 
indeed! You must knock at the door and make a 
great noise, and ring and ring again until she hears. 
A very stupid person is Senora Ruiz — but honest, 
absolutely honest !” 

“I will call her. But first, shall I send someone — 
or telephone somewhere — for the ambulance ?” 

“No — no — no!” cried the glove dealer, wildly. 
“Think how helpless I am ! At any moment I might 
be robbed — my stock is so valuable and so easily car- 
ried away. Ay de mi ! and it will cost me a year’s 

savings to get well again Go, senorita 

— for the love of mercy ! — go call Senora Ruiz !” 

Ray started to her feet and pushing open the side 
door, pointed out by the other woman’s tremulous 
finger, emerged on the dark passage from which the 
stairs ascended to the upper pisos. Although these 
gloomy entrance halls are a characteristic feature in 
the dwellings of Madrid, there are innumerable 
varieties of them and many degrees of gloom. 
Some are wide — others are narrow ; some have walls 
of fresh, bright stucco — others are shut in by dingy, 
crumbling plaster; some are floored with wood or 
tiles or even marble — others are without any floor 
save mother Earth; some have elevators and easy, 
shallow stairs — others have steep, crooked, winding 
flights, down which it is easy to break one’s neck; 
some are well kept and well ventilated — others are 
very dirty and the garlic smells to heaven ! This was 
one of the others. 


332 


Her American Daughter 


Up flight after flight, Ray mounted rapidly and 
paused, quite breathless, on the fourth narrow land- 
ing. There, repeatedly jerking the bell handle and 
detecting no consequent tinkle, she proceeded to bat- 
ter the door with her two small fists, and was 
greatly astonished when, with a rusty creak, it swung 
inward. Evidently the deaf senora was at home to 
visitors. Feeling very like a burglar, Ray pushed 
on into the tiny hall. Just beyond the threshold was 
a small stone jug with a dingy tumbler inverted over 
its stopper; her skirts, as she hurried by, brushed 
the glass from its place and it rolled over on the 
uneven tiles. She stooped quickly to restore it and 
was relieved to find it quite undamaged. “If I must 
burgle,” she softly laughed, “Ed like to do as little 
harm as possible.” 

This hall was windowless and darkly desolate ; no 
sunshine ever found its way here, and no daylight but 
what filtered dimly through the transoms over the 
inner doors. There were three of these : she knocked 
at each in turn, calling gently and then clearly 
and then loudly for Senora Ruiz. No answer came. 

“How tiresome!” she murmured and, obedient to 
Carlota’s suggestion, noisily rattled the door knobs, 
listening at intervals for a voice within. “It must cer- 
tainly be a very cracked old voice that belongs with 
such deaf ears !” she thought ; then — was it imagina- 
tion ? — she seemed to catch a distant, sleepy “Adel- 
ante!” Still doubtful, but impatient, she turned the 
handle of the door: it opened readily on another 
desolate interior — dark, unfurnished, empty. 


Her American Daughter 333 

Now, for the first time, it occurred to her that she 
had mistaken the piso. And yet Carlota had said — 
what had Carlota said ? The sixth floor or the fifth ? 
Did she reckon the shop as number one ? Remember- 
ing that PRIMERO half way up the ascent to 
Dolores’ flat, Ray was seized with doubt. There 
ought to be a black lettered QUINTO outside, on 
the wall of the landing. She retraced her steps to 
see. But meanwhile, the outer door had swung 
heavily into place; as she approached it, the latch 
clicked softly. Unalarmed, she pulled the handle and 
tried the bolts. It was not to be supposed that a lock 
was ever so constructed that the unwary householder 
might any day be his own jailer! She had only to 
shift one of these little brass knobs . . . now, 

that was curious! What a nuisance it was to have 
such absurdly weak hands ! A man’s strong thumb 
could have slipped that catch with ease. 

But her own, after repeated efforts, failed to move it. 
Undoubtedly, she was a prisoner. 

Her heart was beating rapidly, as much from her 
exertions, however, as from any conscious state of 
panic; she lifted her bruised fingers to her flushed 
cheeks and reviewed the situation. If this was an 
unoccupied piso, to whom belonged that jug and 
glass ? Although one room was empty — and a front 
room at that — it was through the transoms of the 
two other doors that the dim light drifted in: she 
quickly tried them both — and found both locked. But 
possibly, Senora Ruiz, leaving her castle burglar- 
proof, though apparently not impregnable, had 
departed like every one else, for the rogativa. In 


334 Her American Daughter 

that case, she would certainly return, in the course 
of the next few hours, and unlock the door; so, 
though it was very provoking and exceedingly incon- 
venient, there was really nothing to be feared. Unless 
— this was an afterthought — Mr. Russell should call 
meanwhile in the Calle Mayor 

Setting her white teeth firmly, she attacked the 
latch again, wrenching and twisting it with feverish 
fingers ; then she pulled out her hairpins — a woman’s 
invaluable tools — and picked at it desperately until, 
being fashioned of delicate shell, one by one, they 
were broken in fragments. Bethinking herself next 
of her hatpin, she attempted to bend it to a loop ; but 
the brittle steel snapped instantly and cruelly pierced 
her palm. She nursed the wound in silence with a 
forlorn little throb of self pity; and then, her 
thoughts naturally reverting to the sufferer down- 
stairs, she hoped some kindly customer had looked in 
and lingered to play Samaritan. Presently, it 
occurred to her that with the arrival of this succor 
would come her best chance of immediate liberation 
— if only she could make herself heard ; so at once 
she gave utterance to a succession of sweet, shrill 
cries, which were muffled by the encircling walls 
although the empty room behind gave back a plaint- 
ive echo. But now the sound of her own voice accom- 
plished what nothing else had done so far : it fright- 
ened her ! She drummed on the obdurate door with 
her tender, impotent fists ; she threw herself against 
it, calling frantically for release; and with every 
wailing cry, her panic was intensified, till at last she 
was down on her knees and sobbing, with her lips 
against the keyhole. 


Her American Daughter 335 

Soon, however, that mood passed from her; in 
its place came a new courage, born of a reasonable 
hope. Leaving the dim hall for the equally gloomy 
chamber, she studied the fastenings of the tall 
French window. Like her own in the Calle Mayor, 
it was shuttered by solid wooden casements of which 
the paneled halves swung inward and were each tri- 
sected horizontally. The two lowest thirds were 
firmly bolted to the floor, and close above the bolt 
was driven a large nail that relentlessly held it in 
place; the middle thirds were barred with a stout 
lath, also nailed in position; the upper thirds were 
merely buttoned with a metal latch, but this was 
unfortunately beyond her reach. Clinging with one 
hand to the wooden bar and resting a small foot on 
the projecting nail, she could just touch it with the 
tip of her finger. 

“Oh !” she yearned, with a last futile strain, “if I 
were only as tall as Peter!” Then, struck by the 
absurdity of the wish, she laughed bravely — laughed 
until she slipped and fell; but her eager glance, 
searching the dim, bare room for something where- 
with to supply the deficient inches, was caught by a 
loose, bulging tile in the floor. Patiently disinterring 
this with the aid of her broken hatpin, she balanced 
it edgewise against the paneling, mounted it with a 
careful toe, sprung upward — and turned the latch. 
One shutter would have yielded now ; but a hitherto 
unsuspected nail, in the upper casing of the window, 
arrested it almost immediately : she had gained noth- 
ing but a long vista of gray sky, scarcely four inches 
in width, and even this was obscured by a murky 


336 Her American Daughter 

pane in the outer casement. “But at least I can shat- 
ter that!” she fiercely cried, hurling the heavy tile 
with sure aim at the narrow opening. It crashed 
through and away into space, and the splintered glass 
tinkled down on the balcony floor. Too late she real- 
ized how deadly the missile might be, and with a chill 
of horror she listened — listened for an outcry in the 
street. None came, and she thanked Heaven; for 
her vivid fancy had pictured a bare-headed woman, 
or a little passing child, struck down ! 

Deeply repenting the criminal thoughtlessness 
which might have eventuated in such a catastrophe, 
she leaned against the wall, subdued and pale; it 
was some time before she gathered energy to climb 
again and halloo through the broken window. Then, 
her voice rung weakly ; she found it impossible, too, 
to reach the shattered opening with her lips, which 
were scarcely so high as the upper edge of the middle 
shutters. When her throat utterly failed, she tried 
to signal with her handkerchief, but succeeded only 
in cutting her soft wrist on the jagged points of 
glass; whereupon the flag of distress was neces- 
sarily put in requisition for surgical purposes. Dis- 
heartened and in pain, she subsided in a limp heap on 
the floor and drooped her head against the casement, 
closing her tear-filled eyes. The perfume of the 
crushed lilacs in her belt floated up to her, poignantly 
sweet. Again she felt a throb of weary pity — for her 
own self, sitting there. 

A fresher, purer breath blew in through the broken 
pane; and, by and by, it was burdened with faint 
echoes — the incessant footsteps of a great multitude, 


Her American Daughter 


337 


the low murmur of reverent voices, the plaint of 
muted instruments, harmonious and solemn, and a 
recurring- chant that softly rose, swelled, died away, 
and rose and failed again, at measured intervals. The 
rogativa was in progress, and its long procession of 
suppliants was trailing through the neighboring 
square with the bones of San Isidro. Ray started up 
and listened and understood ; then — greatly chiding 
herself because she had needed the finger of supersti- 
tion to point her to the One who always hears — she 
offered her own petition, and felt comforted. 

Slowly, very slowly, the lagging hours went by; 
the lilacs breathed out their dying fragrance, the air 
blowing in at the broken window grew more fresh 
and moist and cool. Outside, the voices still mur- 
mured, the footsteps pattered, the solemn recurring 
chant arose and died. And within, Ray listened and 
hoped . . . and waited . . . and, being 

very weary, fell asleep. . . . 

“Agua! San Isidro, agua! agua! agua!” 

A hoarse voice, screaming uncouthly in the street 
below, woke her at last to a clearer realization of her 
predicament, and she bitterly repented her supine- 
ness during the precious forenoon. Already she was 
suffering from thirst and hunger — for, since dinner 
yesterday, nothing had passed her lips but a cup of 
coffee and a morsel of roll ; with every hour, there- 
fore, her strength must decrease and her voice 
weaken. So she bravely renewed her efforts at door 
and window, calling till her throat was sore, 
wrestling with the locks and bolts till her fingers 
ached and her wounded wrist began to trouble her 


338 Her American Daughter 

afresh. But of physical pain she was hardly con- 
scious : the slow, hot tears that fell on the immovable 
nail above the casement bolt were drawn from her by 
a vision of the man she loved turning away from 
Dolores’ door. “If I could see him for just one min- 
ute!” she sobbed, “just one minute to say goodbye!” 

With the passing hours the room grew darker and 
darker: its gloom, to unaccustomed eyes would ere 
long have been impenetrable ; but hers still pierced to 
the duskiest corners. When, however, her watch told 
her that it was half past six, — so Mr. Russell and 
Mrs. Dering must have started for the station, — she 
abandoned her piteous labors, for which the incentive 
was now taken away, and stretched herself miserably 
on the cold, hard tiles. 

It was conceivable that she might die here ! And at 
that moment, the thought was not unwelcome — 
except for Louise’s sake. She wondered dully why 
she had been born at all, if this was to be the end ! 
Then out of her weary light-headedness, she evolved 
a curiously fatalistic theory to account for her being 
and becoming : doubtless she had been raised up, and 
educated, and brought over seas, and inspired to 
paint Dolores’ portrait in order to save the far more 
useful life of the Spanish lad Jose — brave young 
breadwinner to a family of nine ! The thought both 
humiliated and comforted her — if she had missed her 
share in the world’s joy and success, she had at least 
taken her small part in its work. Pondering this, 
there came to her a sudden revelation of the inter- 
dependence of all human fates. “How strange !” she 
murmured dreamily, “I never realized before that 


Her American Daughter 339 

every life must necessarily influence thousands of 
other lives, near at hand or half the world away — 
just as the spreading ripples on a lake intersect and 
modify each other. . . . Poor Carlota, she 

rippled into me disastrously ! Because of her fall, I 
am here now . . . Still, she is not a bit more 

to blame than are my last pair of tan colored gloves 
for wearing out inopportunely. . . . That 

seems to prove that our intentions, only, will be laid 
to our last account. . . . And behind the crud- 

est chances, all things must be working together for 
good in the great Plan !” 

This latter thought was still floating through her 
mind when there came a gentle splashing of rain- 
drops on the window pane, and in the sibilant soft 
whisper, she heard a new reminder that if chance 
was ruled by Providence, Providence was not 
unmoved by prayer. 


CHAPTER XXX 


To the easy, harmless, well-meaning individual 
who glides through life contentedly in the line of 
least resistance, led on by the inclinations of others 
rather than impelled by any vital, springing force of 
his own, there is nothing so bewildering as the sud- 
den necessity for a choice between two painful 
courses. Francisco’s departure that afternoon, from 
the Calle Mayor, had been in the nature of a flight. 
He alone, of all the party gathered at Dolores’ table, 
could have furnished a plausible explanation of the 
American girl’s disappearance; but, in order to direct 
the suspicions of her friends toward the one person 
who had a powerful motive for interfering with her 
freedom of action, he would have been obliged to 
betray — and, by so doing, nullify — the wager 
between the two Silvelas. This would have been at 
the sacrifice of his honor as “a gentleman and a sol- 
dier” and, probably, of his intimacy with Don 
Enrique as well, — and the second consideration had 
not the least weight with him. Their present rela- 
tions, resulting from Enrique’s generous recognition 
of a timely service, were purely fortuitous; for pro- 
fessionally they had never been associated — one 
being the captain of a privileged corps, the other only 
a second lieutenant in a scrub regiment. The friend- 
ship, therefore, although of several months’ growth, 


Her American Daughter 341 

was hardly of a nature to stand any considerable 
strain. But opposed to these deterring arguments 
was the magic influence of “a good deed in a naughty 
world.” Had Portia’s simile ever come within Fran- 
cisco’s ken, his eager fancy would doubtless have 
fitted it to Ray ; for now, recalling the story Dolores 
had just told, he could find in his vocabulary no ade- 
quate tribute to her generosity. And that he should 
allow her to be victimized in any way by Teodoro’s 
cupidity, appeared to him quite as reprehensible as 
the breaking of his plighted word. 

“Valgame Dios!” he fretted distractedly, “either 
course I choose will be dishonorable!” and so, his 
military duties furnishing an excuse for some delay, 
he allowed the whole afternoon to slip by without 
coming to any decision. 

At dusk, returning shamefacedly to the Calle 
Mayor, he encountered Peter near the door and 
received from him the uncheering news that as yet 
no clue had been discovered. “That is,” explained 
Peter, “none that leads anywhere,” and went on to 
repeat the unsatisfactory testimony of the tobacconist 
and Manuela. 

The newsgirl’s tale, however, added tenfold to 
Francisco’s suspicions. “What says Senor Rosail?” 
he demanded. 

“Senor Rosail — ” replied Peter, in his own queer 
Anglo-Spanish, “has vamoosed — gone on a false 
scent — lost himself. I haven’t seen him since three 
o’clock. But Don Antonio, Mr. Stafford and I have 
been chasing an Inspector de Vigilancia. We have 
been three times to police headquarters, but the roga- 


342 


Her American Daughter 


tiva seems to have demoralized — discomposed — dis- 
organized them. ... In plain English, such 
a set of thick-headed, punctilious, hair-splitting, red- 
tape-tangling idiots I never saw in all my born days, 
and it’s a satisfaction to tell you so even if you 
can’t understand me !” and having thus relieved his 
feelings, he flung away down the street without wait- 
ing for a reply. 

The young soldier gazed after him with troubled 
eyes, and instead of climbing dinnerward, as he had 
previously intended, turned on his heel and hastened, 
through the now fast falling rain, in the direction 
of the Palacio Real, not very far from which were 
quartered many of the officers of the royal guard — 
among them, Don Enrique de Silvela. 

For a constitutionally weak man to nerve himself 
to a decisive step requires almost as much courage as 
for a physical coward to overcome his panic under 
fire. Francisco’s knees fairly quaked under him as 
he was ushered into Enrique’s presence. The captain, 
with three of his brother officers was just seating 
himself at a well ordered dinner table, and the new- 
comer was cordially urged to join them, his feeble 
protests being promptly overruled. “For whether the 
Caballero’s errand was one of business or of pleasure, 
it could be ill sped on an empty stomach ; and if an 
affair of the heart — as his looks would seem to indi- 
cate ! — he must drink with them to the lady’s health 
in a bumper of Tio Pepe, a vintage that needs no 
recommendation to a connoisseur.” That Francisco 
was very far from being one, goes without saying; 
moreover, he was not a little awed by the company in 


Her American Daughter 


343 


which he found himself, — his right hand neighbor 
was the nephew of a duke, and on the opposite side 
of the table sat the grandson of one of the richest 
noblemen in Spain. Painfully, the young provincial 
apprehended that he was about to close to himself 
forever this intoxicating vista into social altitudes far 
above his reach ; for that Enrique would fail to resent 
the communication he was about to make, never for 
one moment dawned upon him. It was not without 
trepidation, therefore, that — the meal being con- 
cluded — he retired with his host to an adjoining 
room ; and the captain’s first remark was not calcu- 
lated to encourage him. 

“Well, Francisco mio, have you come to inform 
me that the little American has taken her departure 
from Madrid and that I am the richer by twenty 
thousand duros ?” 

The lieutenant groaned miserably; he was always 
genially desirous of fulfilling the expectations of his 
friends, and the same easy complaisance that had 
prompted him to secure his father’s business by mar- 
rying the co-heir to the family olive-farm now made 
him very loath to force any step that would be preju- 
dicial to Enrique’s interests. As he glanced up at 
the other’s smiling face, all selfish considerations 
were forgotten. “I wish that it were so, caballero ! 
I heartily wish that it were so !” 

“Why, what has gone wrong?” asked the captain 
kindly. 

With a smothered “Everything!” Francisco pro- 
ceeded to unbosom himself of his suspicions, and his 
heart sank lower before the swift hardening of his 
listener’s face. 


344 


Her American Daughter 


“You think, then, that my cousin is employing 
some unfair and cowardly ruse in order to carry out 
his boast ?” 

“It would certainly appear so, caballero ! I fear he 
will try to compel the senorita to accompany him to 
the Fornos this very night. He probably realizes that 
it is the last opportunity, as her party leaves Madrid 
tomorrow. But of course, even if he should succeed, 
the malfeasance could be afterward proved and the 
stakes would in honor be yours — ” 

“Not in honor!” interrupted the other harshly. 
“Por Dios, not in honor — it would be Judas money! 
And her American friends would be justly incensed ! 
The affair must not be permitted to go so far !” He 
emphasized his words with a gesture so eloquent of 
indignation that Ray’s champion, heartily concur- 
ring, inquired guilefully how it was to be prevented. 
“How?” echoed Enrique, who was now excitedly 
pacing the room. “Why, in but one way — a very 
simple way — a way I have tried before and that 
would have succeeded, if Teodoro had dreamed then 
that a small fortune was at stake. We must cancel 
that wager at once !” 

“But do you realize, caballero, that as the winning 
ticket belonged originally to your cousin — ” 

“I would stand to lose ? Certainly. That is what 
makes it so simple,” said Enrique. “For if my ticket, 
instead of being waste paper as usual, had won a 
prize of twenty thousand duros, a very nice point of 
honor would have been involved. The wager must 
then have stood. Assuredly you must see that ! It 
is exceedingly fortunate that, as things are, no one 
need be a sufferer except myself.” 


Her American Daughter 


345 


At this speech, Francisco was very nearly excited 
to tears; with an ardent enthusiasm, that to an 
unsympathetic observer would have appeared ludi- 
crously overdone, but which his companion recog- 
nized as entirely sincere, he wrung the captain’s hand 
again and again, calling Heaven to witness that here 
was a man of chivalrous honor ! a man of noble gen- 
erosity! a man whose friendship it was his proud 
ambition to deserve! Then he poured out the his- 
tory of Jose’s substitute and declared that, although 
his esteemed companion’s sacrifice was quite without 
a parallel, it was being made in a worthy cause; for 
such a tender hearted angel as the senorita had 
shown herself, he had never seen before and never 
looked to see again ! 

“And you the bridegroom of a month!” cried 
Enrique in laughing reminder, whereupon the enthu- 
siast shrugged submissively and lifted a reproachful 
palm. 

The captain finally decided that, as the coolness 
arising from their recent discussion of the subject 
was still unbroken, a personal interview between Teo- 
doro and himself would now be inadvisable; for, 
little as he desired to quarrel irrevocably, he might 
easily be provoked into expressing so much of his 
indignation as would make reconcilement forever 
impossible. “And we are the last of our line,” he 
added simply. “But a letter can convey all that is 
needful, and — if you would lay me under still further 
obligation, Don Francisco — you will permit me to 
intrust it to your hands.” So saying, he seated him- 
self at an open desk, and drawing toward him a sheet 


346 


Her American Daughter 


of paper, began thoughtfully and slowly to formulate 
a withdrawal from the wager on the ground that the 
doubtful and mysterious situation of the young for- 
eigner precluded any chivalrous man from regarding 
her as a mere die in a game of hazard. 

Francisco, from afar, watched him with wide, rev- 
erent eyes, dimly realizing that to the native instincts 
of this high-minded gentleman his own carefully fos- 
tered sense of honor was as pinchbeck is to gold. A 
few minutes later, armed with the letter and the fate- 
ful ticket — which, since the sorteo three days before, 
he had never trusted out of his personal keeping — 
he started out on his embassy, Enrique proposing to 
accompany him as far as Teodoro’s door. 

Night had long ago closed in on the city. The 
street lamps, shining through the falling rain, were 
set each one in a tremulous halo, and the wet pave- 
ments mirrored them all in long blurred streaks of 
yellow light. The air was full of pleasant watery 
sounds — a pattering and tinkling on the walls and 
window-panes, a dripping and splashing from the 
eaves, a trickling and purling in the gutters. Flitting, 
bat-like, over the sidewalks and hovering in flocks 
on the street corners, were umbrellas innumerable; 
but under one silken shelter the two young officers 
walked, arm in arm, till the Silvela mansion appeared 
in view. That great square building seemed, with 
the coming of the night, to be invested with an air of 
dignified antiquity: over the wide portal with its 
plaster coat of arms projected two wrought iron 
lamps, their fitful beams lighting up the weather 
worn device and the maimed supporters of the 


Her American Daughter 347 

cracked and crumbling- shield, and glistening down 
below in the puddles of the wet, uneven pavement. 
Here, opposite his family escutcheon, Enrique, who 
had suddenly grown gravely silent, paused abruptly, 
promising to await at the Cafe Fornos the reply to 
his proposition, and Francisco, through the smaller, 
unillumined side entrance, mounted faint-heartedly 
to beard the noneToo-courteous Teodoro in his den. 

Meanwhile, on the floor of that upper room in the 
Calle del Arenal, amid a darkness that could be felt, 
Ray sat with her dizzy head against the wall, her 
hands clasped close over her fluttering heart, her 
wide, aching eyes staring hotly at nothing, and her 
faith contending stoutly with her fears. She had 
been a prisoner for perhaps eleven hours ; in all that 
time her friends must certainly have grown anxious ; 
they must be seeking her even now — Peter and 
Dolores and Mr. Stafford ; they would never rest till 
she was found. But how would they ever guess that 
she was here, all alone in this desolate dark cell ? 

Her horror of the solitude increased with every 
moment; the silence seemed to grow louder and 
louder till it roared in her ears. .Then she lost all 
count of time : five minutes of this midnight seemed 
longer than an hour of day. But sleep was far from 
her. She sat motionless, listening, listening. . . . 

All at once, in the direction of the hall, she heard 
a door creak softly and a cautious step shuffle over 
the threshold. A new fear seized upon her, and 
instead of calling out she held her breath lest it be 
overheard ! But the step retreated as stealthily as it 


348 Her American Daughter 

had come ; as stealthily and as cautiously, it 
descended the narrow stair. Then Ray’s voice and 
courage returned together; she demanded loudly, 
“Who is there ?” and receiving no answer, though the 
footstep was yet audible, called again and again. 
Still the cautious foot descended, step by step, as 
though feeling its way through the darkness. She 
heard it so plainly, so very plainly, that . 
Groping, stumbling blindly, she finally reached the 
hall, where the outer door — stood open ! Her blind 
hands mistook it for the immovable partition till it 
swung gently under her touch. And now she was 
out on the landing and feeling her own way down the 
unlighted stair ! 

Four steep, awkward flights, and then a cheering 
gleam from the passage below — the passage leading 
out to the street. Her eyes, so long used to the^dark, 
blinked painfully in the pale rays of the smoky, ill- 
trimmed lamp affixed to the dingy wall; but her 
vision soon clearing, she perceived, between herself 
and the outer door, the huddled figure of a man — an 
old man with grizzled hair and bleared black eyes, 
who gazed at her stupidly as she passed him. At his 
feet was a stone jug — strangely familiar! — and, in 
his unsteady hand, a thick glass half full of a dark 
red liquor. The strong fumes from it, and from the 
uncorked jug, mingled unpleasantly with the odor 
of bad kerosene in the smoky lamp and the aroma, 
all-pervading, of stale garlic. But the outer door 
yawned to the street. And though the rain poured 
steadily, and though she was bareheaded — for her 
hat and the broken pins were all upstairs, forgot- 


Her American Daughter 349 

ten, — she hurried giddily out and lifted her face to 
the sky. Then the cool fresh drops, beating softly on 
her forehead, convinced her that, in very truth, she 
was at liberty! 


In the Calle Mayor, Russell, who during the last 
few hours had grown hollow-eyed and gaunt, was 
just starting out again in the forlorn hope of finding 
Ray at one of the city's hospitals. At the foot of the 
stairs he paused to leave a message for Mr. Stafford 
with the much-distressed portero, whose unread 
newspaper, lying across his knees, had lost all its 
wonted fascination. Tonito, squatting on his heels 
beside the old man's chair, listened with sharp ears 
to the instructions — in order to be prompter to his 
grandfather. But to the very young, concentration 
of mind is quite unnecessary, — at ten or even eleven 
years, the unworn faculties are often quite divergent- 
ly and efficiently applied, — Tonito' s tongue and sticky 
fingers were busy with a hoarded sweet, his little 
snub nose enjoyingly sniffed the fragrance of Rus- 
sell’s cigar, and his bright eyes watched the open 
doorway for the glitter of the raindrops as they 
fleetingly mirrored the lights inside. Suddenly, 
through his fritula-stoppered lips, burst an inarticu- 
late squeal of surprise, and a small brown finger 
pointed frantically. 

Russell's gaze swiftly followed it, and in the door 
he saw her standing — a benighted Ray, pale and wan 
and half extinguished by the pelting, pouring rain, 
with her damp unbraided hair streaming darkly 
around her face. Once before he had seen her thus, 


350 


Her American Daughter 


and had felt a strange desire to gather her close in his 
arms and bear her away to some safe haven, afar 
from the press and the struggle and all life’s cruel 
chances. And so, for a moment, he mistook her for 
a memory. 

But now she was staring back at him with wide 
gray eyes full of bewildered joy. “You stayed !” she 
hoarsely exulted, “you stayed to hunt for me !” Then, 
as she held forth her hands to him, he knew that his 
longing might come true. 

There were eighty-nine steps to be climbed before 
Dolores, in motherly ecstacy, could claim her from 
him ; and Russell thanked Heaven and the architect 
for every one ! 

Of the three other members of the household who, 
returning presently in great discouragement, were 
greeted by the portero with the happy tidings, none 
appeared to rejoice more heartily than Don Antonio. 
For several hours he had been unwearied in his 
efforts to untangle the red tape which Peter exe- 
crated; and now, without lingering to hear from 
Dolores more than the bare outlines of her charge’s 
story, he immediately went out again to telephone the 
police and put a period to the official search. This 
accomplished, instead of returning homeward, he 
pressed on with all speed toward the Cafe Suizo. This 
nightly haunt of many another grave and reverend 
senor is located — as we have said before — directly 
opposite the Cafe Fornos. So it happened, not unnat- 
urally, that as he hurried up the Alcala he encoun- 
tered two young officers who had just emerged from 


Her American Daughter 


351 


the last named resort and were directing their steps 
toward the Calle Mayor. In the bright glare of a 
near-by street lamp, they recognized each other, 
whereupon inquiries and explanations followed fast. 

The senorita, declared Don Antonio, had made her 
appearance not more than fifteen minutes ago, 
greatly shaken in nerve but otherwise none the worse 
for her adventure — which, as it proved, was entirely 
due to a refractory lock and her own too-fearless dis- 
position. “But you will hold me excusable, Cabal- 
leros, if I leave you to learn the details from our 
friends. I have just time left me to fulfil an engage- 
ment with one of the champion chess players of Mad- 
rid ; and, since our little Reina has timed her return 
so opportunely, you must pardon me if my anxieties 
are now chiefly concerned with the movements of 
my adversary’s queen!” So saying, and chuckling 
happily over his own wit, he hurried on. 

For a moment or two, neither of the young officers 
gave expression to his secret thought. Then, in a 
burst of bewilderment, Francisco cried: “Don 
Enrique, if, after all, I have meddled only to your 
injury, I can never pardon myself the blunder!” 

Enrique took his arm in a reassuring clasp. “We 
must hear the whole story before we upbraid our- 
selves, amigo. But I confess that Teodoro’s mes- 
sage has somewhat shaken my own suspicions. — You 
are quite sure there was nothing in his manner to 
confirm yours?” 

Despairingly Francisco shrugged. “Por Dios ! I 
do not know. He expressed no surprise either at 
the senorita’s disappearance or at your action, and 
his reply was just what I have given you : Tell my 


352 


Her American Daughter 


cousin that if he is such a fool as to throw away 
twenty thousand duros for a chivalrous whim 
worthy of the crack-brained knight of La Mancha, I 
am not such an idiot as to refuse to profit by his 
folly :’ ” 

“Ah, well,’' said the other calmly, “if when I come 
to die, my conscience be no heavier than Don Quix- 
ote’s, I am quite content meanwhile to live as poor.” 
Then over them both there fell a silence that remained 
unbroken till they had turned into the Calle Mayor. 

It was from Peter that they obtained the particu- 
lars — a very exuberant Peter, whose intense relief 
inclined him to regard with lenity even the delin- 
quent who had tendered neither advice nor assistance 
during the search. To the captain he was cordiality 
itself, for Enrique had explained — in his careful, 
courteous English — that he had the honor to be an 
acquaintance of the senorita, had indeed meditated 
offering his services to her friends, but was most 
happy now to be able to present congratulations 
instead. 

“You bet they’re quite in order,” declared Peter 
heartily, becoming recklessly idiomatic on discov- 
ering a hearer who appeared conversant with his 
native tongue, “but we don’t deserve a particle of 
credit. The whole thing turns out to be only another 
of Miss Ray’s justifiable scrapes. On an errand of 
mercy, you must know, she broke and entered in a 
perfectly strange house that had a unique sort of 
trap instead of a burglar alarm ; and if it hadn’t been 
that the place was the private cache of a bibulous old 
portero whose daughter-in-law drew a pretty tight 


Her American Daughter 


353 


rein, she might be there at this minute: hut the jolly 
old boy — thinking it was about time for another 
drink — trotted upstairs and unlocked the door. ,, 

Enrique looked mystified. “Pardon me, caballero, 
but I do not follow you. You say the sehorita was 
imprisoned ? — and by whom ?” he demanded sternly. 

“Eh?” said Peter. “Oh, no! I thought I had 
explained. It was altogether an accident, such as 
befell that unfortunate bride who got into the chest 
— perhaps you remember her name, for I don’t. But 
I’d better begin at the beginning,” which he did, and 
this time was rather more explicit. The captain 
interrupted him again and again, translating for 
Francisco’s ear each reply that was given him. 

“This glove shop, you say, is on the Arenal ? And 
the proprietress, does she call herself Carlota Vel- 
asco ?” 

“That’s the one! An awfully goodlooking crea- 
ture. Too bad she should have hurt herself!” 

“Ah, yes,” agreed Enrique, “it will doubtless be 
regretted by a large clientele which she regularly 
supplied with gloves and — lottery tickets. Was the 
sehorita present when the accident occurred?” 

“No,” said Peter, “but it must have happened only 
a short time before, for not more than a half hour 
could have elapsed between her first and second visits 
to the shop.” 

“Her first and second visits ?” 

“Yes; she left it to avoid speaking to a young 
scamp who has annoyed her on several occasions — a 
fellow by the name of Silvela,” explained Peter, who 
had only half listened to Francisco’s introduction. 


354 


Her American Daughter 


“I know him,” said the captain grimly, and during 
the remainder of the narrative, he had no more ques- 
tions to ask. 

But afterward, when he and the lieutenant were 
again on the street, and sharing the privacy of a 
single umbrella, he laughed a short low laugh of 
mingled amusement and chagrin. “Well, Francisco 
mio, you and I are of one feather,” he declared, “and 
that cousin of mine, with an ingenuity most diaboli- 
cal, has caught us both in the same snare! Take it 
not amiss if I say that you have played a good 
Sancho to my Quixote. But in one point even La 
Mancha’s knight would have the laugh on me : his 
Dulcinea’s disenchantment was to be effected at the 
cost of three thousand and three hundred stripes on 
the shoulders of his honest squire ; but the price of our 
fair lady’s liberation has been twenty thousand duros 
out of my knightly pocket ! Nevertheless, I give you 
my word that not for ten times that amount would I 
have Teodoro’s conscience in my bosom — or Car- 
lota’s either.” 

“Then you think — ” 

“That the ticket which you delivered into my 
cousin’s hands was the key which unlocked that 
door ! I believe now that he had no hope of carry- 
ing out his bet, but only of playing on our fears. He 
devised this little comedy and we have filled just the 
roles which he assigned to us ! However, I can prove 
nothing. And I have no desire to prove aught — 
against a Silvela! The sooner you can forget the 
whole affair, my friend, the better you will please 


Her American Daughter 


355 


“But they — ” exclaimed Francisco, with a back- 
ward nod, “they have no such suspicion 

“Most fortunately/' replied the captain. “Tomor- 
row they leave Madrid. Let them remember us as 
kindly as they can !” 


CONCLUSION 


The hour of departure had arrived; in the Calle 
Mayor an omnibus was waiting- at the senora’s door, 
and in the lower hall was a heap of hand luggage, 
over which Tonito — in an unprecedented state of 
affluence — mounted guard. Upstairs, on the third 
piso, many last words and goodbyes had been 
spoken — some with kindly cheerfulness, some ten- 
derly sorrowful; and now, one after another, the 
travelers descended to the street. Peter was the first 
to leave, talking gaily with Francisco and throwing 
a kiss to Benita as he looked back at the turn of the 
stair ; the Staffords followed next, with Don 
Antonio in courteous attendance ; but Ray and Rus- 
sell lingered while Dolores held a hand of each. 

“Adios, my children; you have not been like 
strangers under my roof, but for these three months 
as my own family. And now you are going away, 
and my heart and my home will be empty ! But in 
the days to come, hija mia, you must think some- 
times of your Spanish mother, for while she lives she 
will never cease to think of you, to pray for you both 
— and to bless the saints that an old woman's 
meddling was not permitted to mar your lives. Oh, 
my children, hold fast to your love ! — and cherish it ! 


Her American Daughter 357 

that it may grow stronger with the passing years, 
and abide with you forever. . . .Once more, 

farewell! Vayan con Dios!” 

A few moments later, the omnibus rattled away 
down the Calle Mayor; and Ray — with her hand 
close clasped in that of the man beside her — gazed 
back through a mist of tears at the silver haired 
woman who was watching them out of sight. 






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